


The Room With Yellow Chrysanthemums

by smauglockbatch



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: F/M, Fluff and Humor, Hurt/Comfort, Romance
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-01-26
Updated: 2015-03-18
Packaged: 2018-03-09 05:11:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 13
Words: 21,651
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3237551
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/smauglockbatch/pseuds/smauglockbatch
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock and Molly had somewhat known each other in school. But then Molly had disappeared to no one knew where and the both of them forgot each other. Then someone's death brought them both face to face, unexpectedly, after fifteen years.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. So Abrupt Was His Appearance

**Author's Note:**

> Finally, I have a story ready! I started writing this in the first week of December last year. And it is done thank the Lord! This one is rated T only because of graphic domestic abuse. I hope you really like this story!  
> By the way, I started a page on fanart page on deviantart.com Do check it out :)  
> I need reviews! Please leave reviews whether it be just a small smiley face or criticism or how lovely the story was. I will post the next chapter soon, I promise. I have everything written down, so I will update soon!

She was living a life of comfort.

But a life of compromise.

A life of fashion.

But a life of misery.

She was thankful for all the wealth she had.

But she had hoped for something else.

Something like love.

She remembered the day she was apprised of the fact that she was to wed James Moriarty.

Apparently, her parents and the to-be-bridegroom's parents had already harmonized on the wedding, when her mother was one month from her due date.

She was a trainee pathologist and so was a keen reader of books, newspapers and articles. She had read, many times, that parents fulfil their child's every need before the child realizes the particular need.

Her parents certainly had done their job. Before even holding her in their arms, they had fifty percent married her off.

Very well done.

It wasn't that she hated her parents. She loved them and held them very dear. But they could, sometimes, prove to be quiet gullible. She wasn't aware of the exact conversation that had taken place when the wedding was negotiated, but she was sure the Moriarty family knew which cards to play. The Moriartys were distant relatives of the Hoopers and followed the tradition of keeping family wealth within the family.

Her parents had given a handsome amount of dowry to her on the wedding, much to the pleasure of her in-laws. She still remembered what she had thought, when she had seen the look of satisfaction and glee on the Moriartys' faces when they saw the dowry, "At least that's done."

The Moriartys had a large, old mansion, housing the father of the house, Jeremy Moriarty, mother, Glenda Moriarty, eldest son, Joseph Moriarty, the youngest son, James Moriarty, and her.

Jeremy Moriarty was a very stern, close-mouthed, literally, but a generous person. To her, he seemed the nicest person under the roof.

Glenda Moriarty, on the other hand, was quite an intrusive woman, with a dangerous habit of gossiping.

Joseph Moriarty. There were a few words that suited that person. Ill-fated. Talkative. Depressed. He had tried his luck in every field of work, where his father could send him through sources and due favours, but never succeeded. He had married a very beautiful woman, Irene Adler. But they were now divorced, and rightly so. No one, who preferred an extravagant life, would want to live with an unemployed person. He would usually spend days and days at home, then weeks and weeks away from the house. No one knew where he went. In fact, no one bothered to ask.

James Moriarty was a quiet, disciplined man. He would leave for work early in the morning, before anyone woke up, and come home early in the evening, then had dinner with the family, and went to sleep.

That's what everyone knew. But his wife, Molly, knew more.

Behind closed doors of their bedroom, there was pain, misery and torture. Every evening, after excusing themselves from the dining table, the couple would return to their room quietly. Molly would dutifully, close the door after her husband, while he would rummage for a riding crop, a sturdy rope and a piece of smelly rag. He'd order her to strip, then he would tie the rag over her mouth, the rope around her wrists, tight enough to hurt and make her lie on her stomach on the bed. Then the lashes of the crop would meet the skin of her back, her buttocks, her thighs, her arms and legs. Over and over again the crop would strike her tender skin, her moans and pleadings of mercy getting muffled into the cloth. He would say nothing during the ordeal, which would last for an hour. But for James, it was hardly five minutes, and to Molly, it felt like days. After that, he'd pull the cloth off her mouth, the ropes as well and massage her chaffed wrists with his cold fingers. She'd lie back on the bed, but would hiss with obvious pain when the crisp bed sheets would touch her lacerations. He'd then possessively pull her against him in bed, and hold her to him. It felt less like warm cuddling, and more like holding a prison in chains. As if he was scared. Scared that she would leave him in the middle of the night.

And he was. He knew she didn't love him. He also knew that she was more educated than him. He had graduated with a doctor of philosophy in business management, while she had been practising general pathology at Cork University Hospital, when they had got married. He felt inferior and threatened. He had coerced her into resigning after their wedding, and had resolved to beat, all her medical training out of her. He felt exceptional and superior when he had her tied and helpless in front of him. It took him some time, but he figured out that the bashing benefited him in another way as well. His wife, wanting to keep his husband's secret covert, had to hide her wounds and bruises with clothing. That meant wearing full sleeves, long trousers. But clothes couldn't be tight, or it would hurt. So loose shirts and trousers it is. He would welcome the pity he would receive from people, for having an ugly wife, with close to no sense of fashion. He had the power to change people's perception of her. He felt proud and sated.

Just like any other day's routine, she was at home. With her husband gone to work and brother-in-law gone to God knows where, only she, her mother-in-law and her father-in-law were at home. She had retired to the library, her only best friend in the scary household, just like every other day. She was reading her favourite novel, Pride and Prejudice. She was sure she had read it about fifty times since her wedding day, but she just couldn't put it down.

"They were within twenty yards of each other, and so abrupt was his appearance, that it was impossible to avoid his sight. Their eyes instantly met, and the cheeks of both were overspread with the deepest blush. He absolutely started, and for a moment seemed immovable from surprise; but shortly recovering himself, advanced towards the party, and spoke to Elizabeth, if not in terms of perfect composure, at least of perfect civility."

She put her nose in the book and took a deep breath. It smelled intoxicating and delicious. And with that thought, she fell asleep, with her head on top of the dog-eared book. She sighed in her sleep and dreamt of a nineteenth century man wearing breeches, tailcoat and a cravat around his neck. He held a walking stick and a beaver top hat. She would've thought it was Mr. Darcy, had it not been for the curly dark hair on his head and striking pale blue eyes boring into hers.

She woke up with a start. Dreaming of Mr. Darcy would have made sense. But she had been dreaming about a person she vaguely recognized, but couldn't really put a finger on who that really was.

She discarded the thought as she placed the novel back in its place and went to help out her mother-in-law in the kitchen. Little did she know that the events of the following night would change her life for good.


	2. The Following Night

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh, I made terrible grammar mistakes in the previous chapter! I apologise for the mistakes, and I have tried my best to minimize them in this chapter.  
> Please don't forget to review. They are oxygen to me! Gimme reviews!

There was a loud blood curdling scream. Molly sat upright in the bed and felt around her in the dark for her husband, but found the bed empty. She fumbled over the bed side table for the clock. It was four thirty-five in the morning.

There was another shrill scream. She knew it was from within the house, so she stealthily made her way to the door and peeked out. Her husband was standing outside, to the left of their room. She could see the horrified, frozen look on his face. She reach over to him to ask what was wrong and comfort him. That's what wives do. Try to comfort their husbands. The moment her hand touched his arm, he jerked his arm away and glared at her. Of course, her husband wasn't Mr. Darcy, so she just cowered away from him and waited for his glare to move away from her. As she did so, her eyes travelled down towards the banister and to the floor of the lounge. Jeremy Moriarty was staring back at her from the ground with chilly, unresponsive eyes. She would have thought it weird of him to be lying on the marble floor just to look up at her, if it had not been for the dark red blood pooling around his body, and his wife kneeling beside him, sobbing loudly.

"Father…" Molly whispered as she stared into his lightless eyes and wondered how inauspicious this family was.

* * *

 

Early morning brought them visits from the Scotland Yard. Molly sat with her mother-in-law on the sofa, trying to comfort her. All the members of the family had been anguished to such an extent, that they hadn't bothered to change into their day clothes.

The police officers had started their work of collecting samples, examining the crime scene, asking the family of the victim necessary questions. The police was surprisingly very polite to them when conducting the interviews. It didn't seem queer to her, because the Moriartys had their reach everywhere, including the law and order regulators in the country.

Molly was sitting with her mother-in-law in the lounge when, suddenly, the main door flew open with a loud bang. The police officers moved back as if performing a dance sequence, to give way to whoever was coming in. Two middle aged men walked in, massaging their foreheads as they continued listening to the constant scolding being given by a following blond man to a much taller man, who was walking beside him as he sulked and did everything except listen to him. The tall man looked as if he was supposed to attend a costume party and was brought here instead. He wore a long dark coat, blue scarf and an absurd deerstalker. Molly fought back a smile as she reminded herself that her father-in-law had just died, and no matter how humorous she found the hat, she was not supposed to smile. But really, who wore deerstalkers now a days.

Glenda had started crying loudly by now.

"Do you want me to get you a glass of water?" she asked softly, with a comforting hand on her shoulder.

"Yes, please," Glenda nodded and pressed her face into her hands.

"Mother, everything will be alright, I promise. I'm sure the police will figure this out," she whispered as she placed a light kiss on the crown of her head and went to the kitchen.

She poured a glass of cold water and hurried back to her, and found her being attacked by detectives. She scurried over to them angrily. It was very rude of them to be pestering a widow so soon after her husband's death. She was going to say just that. Yes, just that. Had it not been for one of the two middle-aged men, who had earlier been very irritated by their two colleagues.

"Excus-" she started.

"Hullo, I'm Detective Inspector Lestrade, from the Scotland Yard," he said politely and extended his hand to shake hers. She refused the offer. The detective coughed awkwardly while someone behind him snickered.

" _Scotland Yard_? Here?"

"Yes, we do a bit of sharing and consulting with Garda Síochána. So we have Detective Inspector Dimmock from Garda Síochána and this is Dr. John Watson and his partner-"

"Partner in  _investigation_ ," an angry voice corrected him.

"Yes, partner in investig-"

"Dr. John Watson," the blond man interrupted him again as he smiled cordially and stepped forward, "We are truly very sorry for your loss."

"You might want to give that glass of water to your mother-in-law before it turns distasteful for her," murmured a deep baritone. Molly scowled with annoyance at the anonymous voice while D. I. Lestrade and Dr. Watson huffed with embarrassment.

"We're sorry, but we have to ask some quest-" the inspector said.

" _I_  have to ask questions, detective inspector," the voice growled.

"Very well," the detective sighed and stepped back.

John Watson, however, stepped forward and whispered, "Don't take him seriously. He's a bit…too frank. Just ignore him and…and just answer his questions," he nodded with a sad smile.

"Don't take who seriously? I don't see-" Molly began, but she too was interrupted.

"Don't take  _whom_  seriously. You are an avid reader of books and still so poor in grammar. Pity," the voice remarked again and finally the owner of the voice decided to step out from behind the gentlemen. It was the tall man who was being scolded by Dr. Watson earlier. He was still wearing the deerstalker, and this time, Molly couldn't contain her laughter, "Find something, funny?" he asked acidly while Molly kept giggling. He narrowed his eyes at her from under the bill of the hat and quickly took it off. He shoved the hat into the inside pocket of his coat and fixed his eyes on her, "Well?"

Molly was trying to keep her giggling at bay, but the moment she looked up at the detective again, her giggling diffused into a surprised gasp. He had a mess of thick curly black hair on the top of his head, and nestled between the locks falling over his forehead were two captivating, light blue eyes.

"Sherlock Holmes, consulting detective for Scotland Yard. You have changed a lot, haven't you, Molly Hooper," he smirked at her, having an upper hand once again.

Sherlock Holmes…pale blue eyes, curly, black hair…oh dear, no. She knew him. From a past life, a life she had long left behind her.

"Mrs. Molly Moriarty," she said crisply after quickly gathering her wits, while the D.I. and Dr. Watson exchanged curious glances.

"I didn't expect you to marry a Moriarty at all," he shook his head in mock disapproval.

"I didn't expect you to be alive at all", she murmured and quickly looked back to see her husband busy talking to one of the police officers, "Inspector Lestrade, I assume you were here to ask some serious questions?" she asked gravely. The detective immediately stepped forward to ask her questions, with a writing pad in hand, when the consulting detective blocked his path and stared down at her.

"Again,  _I_  am here to ask the questions," Sherlock Holmes repeated.

Molly glowered up at him, then looked towards the confused men standing beside the obnoxious man, then back at him, "Do you mind if we have a private word?"

"Absolutely not."

"Please find your way to the library, I'll meet you there shortly," she nodded to him as he left and she leaned towards Glenda, "Mother, why don't you take some rest in your room?" she asked her to which Glenda just shook her head, "Alright…" she turned towards the library. She could feel Inspector Lestrade's and Dr. Watson's eyes burning into her back. She ignored them and pulled the library's oak doors open. The annoying man was leaning against one of the book shelves, holding a novel very dear to her.

"Put it back to where you got it from," she snapped and shut the doors behind her after one last look at her husband, who was distracted elsewhere.

"Pride and Prejudice…still in love with Jane Austen. I guess you haven't changed after all," he remarked as he put the book back in its place.

"Why are you here?" she asked sternly.

"Molly...is this how you greet an old friend after fourteen, no…fifteen good long years?" he pouted.

"Acquaintance," she said sharply.

"I wouldn't say that," he murmured as he stepped towards her.

"Why are you here?" she asked firmly.

"Molly...if you're vexed because the last time we-"

"I think, I should get going. And you are leaving right now. I don't want you returning here," she said offensively and whirled around to leave, when Sherlock's hand caught her arm. She cried out in pain and buckled to the floor. Sherlock gasped and immediately let go of her. There was a moment of silence, in which Sherlock was busy roving his eyes all over her, while she tenderly held her arm to her.

"He's beating you…" he hissed heatedly.

"No, you grabbed my arm too hard," she replied.

"I know how  _hard_  I was holding you," his nostrils flared with anger, "This man needs a piece of my mind," he walked past her towards the door. Molly breathed in sharply and scampered to him.

"No, you are not!" she said forcefully.

"Excuse me?" he raised an eyebrow at her.

"It is my life. My  _married_  life, and you should stay out of it," she shook her head.

"Molly, he's hurting you. For goodness' sake," he scowled.

"Why do you care? In fact, I don't care why you do. We both are married, we should just…just keep our distance…"

"I'm not married," he scrunched his nose in confusion.

"Oh, you aren't married to your work anymore, are you?" she asked mordantly, her eyes flashing with fury. Sherlock looked taken aback, as he imitated a fish superbly, by opening and closing his mouth repeatedly. His brain seemed to have hit a glitch. Molly patiently waited for him to recover from his exaggerated trauma.

"Molly, I'm sorry about th-" he began.

"Don't be," she responded curtly and was about to leave when Sherlock spoke.

"You don't understand", he said as he shook his head, "I'm sorry about the fact that I will be a  _frequent_  visitor from now on," he completed his sentence nastily and exited the library.

Molly was terrified. She fell to the floor in a heap and wrapped her arms around herself. She had done so well for fifteen years and now…and now, she was in a mess. Again.

* * *

 


	3. Fifteen Years Ago For Her - Part I

The high school hallway was abuzz with the news of the arrival of a new Biology teacher, Mr. Holloway. The previous teacher, Mr. Brown, had resigned because of his ailing condition from cancer.  
Molly, although feeling sorry for Mr. Brown, was very excited about the new teacher. In her opinion, Mr. Brown had excellent command over, and knowledge of, his subject, but wasn’t able to deliver the information in an understandably comprehensive fashion to his students. Molly blamed communication skills. He would stammer and speak incoherently, but who could blame him. He was way over eighty years of age. Why the school management had not thought of a replacement earlier, she had no idea.  
She made her way to her last class for the day, and was surprised, like everyone else, to find the seating arrangement of the classroom changed. Instead of single tables and chairs lined up for each student, there were now pairs of tables and chairs. She gave the classroom a curious smile and took a seat beside her friend, Sally.  
“What’s with the seating arrangement?” she asked inquisitively.  
“I don’t know, but I heard that the new teacher…Mr. Holloway, asked the management to change it,” Sally grinned excitedly, “Easier to help each other during the horrid chemistry exams at least.”  
Molly smiled at her friend’s careless attitude as she shuffled her books aimlessly and watched the students file in. Suddenly she felt Sally poking her in her rib, “Look who it is,” she jeered loudly towards the doorway. Molly turned to look and saw Sherlock Holmes, a pale boy, swiftly walk into the classroom, ignoring the loud comments and take a seat in the far corner of the classroom. He wore his usual dark clothes, which further pronounced his paleness. He didn’t have friends and was usually very quiet, lost in his own musing. The only time she had seen him very animated was when he was with his elder brother. She also knew the gossips about him. Everyone believed him to be a creepy psychic, but she didn’t buy it. People then started talking about her liking him, which annoyed Molly a lot. She didn’t hold any particular feelings for him. He was just one of her classmates. Who really should not be bullied.  
“Why do you have to do that, Sally?” Molly chided her in a low voice.  
“Oh God, you really do like that freak,” she scrunched her nose and Molly rolled her eyes at her, just when Mr. Holloway entered.  
“He’s not a freak,” she murmured into her open book.  
“Morning, class! My name is Mr. Holloway, your new Biology teacher. As we all know, Mr. Brown has resigned due to his medical condition, may God give him strength,” he said earnestly, followed by a loud snort from the back of the class, “But we shall continue. I have done my PhD in…” he began his introduction, and immediately, Molly dozed off. She was not interested in knowing his academic qualifications, “Now!” Mr. Holloway exclaimed, jolting her awake from her nap, “As you may have noticed, the management was kind enough to help me change the seating arrangement of this class. And I have a very important reason for doing that. I have an assignment for you. You have forty days’ time to research and prepare a project, on the basis of which you will be allotted marks in your Biology finals!” The classroom was curiously humming with what they thought the project would be when Mr. Holloway clapped his hands to bring the class to attention. “The project will be done in pairs,” the classroom cheered loudly, “And I will be deciding the pairs,” the classroom groaned just as loudly.  
Soon the students were on their feet and asked to stand at the back of the class. Mr. Holloway called out random pairs from his attendance sheet, followed by happy giggling and clapping if their partner was reasonable or tolerable enough for them, or disgusted groans if they could predict that their partner would make them both fail their Biology exam.  
“Molly Hooper and…” Mr. Holloway scanned the sheet of paper in front of him, while Molly held her breath, “And Sher-Sherlock Holmes…? Am I pronouncing your name correctly?”  
Molly squared her shoulders and put on a brave face, although her senses were in overdrive. She could hear people pass remarks of pity towards her, snickering and whistling from behind her, and she could see Sherlock nod towards Mr. Holloway in response to his question. Molly felt Sally pat her back reassuringly, and she felt an ounce of her confidence return. She slowly shuffled her feet towards the seat Spooky Holmes had chosen, the seat furthest away from the teacher. How was she supposed to take notes from so far, far away. It wasn't that far, but having to wear her unflattering glasses was a painful thought. She decided she will have to talk him into taking another seat someday.  
She took the seat beside him, somewhat reluctantly, and jumped when her seat creaked, her hand brushing his in the process. Sherlock raised an eyebrow at her and smirked, as though enjoying a private joke. Molly turned around to give him a deadly glare, for two reasons. One; that he better not take her for granted and make her do all his work, and two; she wanted people to see her irritated attitude towards Sherlock. That might get people to shut up. But when she did raise her eyes up to his, she regretted it. She had always seen him from not less than ten feet away, and because her eyes were weak, she always got a very unclear, blurry picture of him. But, now that she was sitting beside him, not less than a few inches away, she still could not precisely describe what she saw. His eyes were the palest blue she had ever seen. Everything about him was pale, yet his countenance bore an eerily aloof, darkness. She noticed his fingers were calloused, but they had felt so soft against her hand. His hair were tousled, but they were clean and waved slightly in wind coming from the window next to him. She had thought she would be at comfort with him, but he had literally taken her breath away. She could see his smirk falter slightly, and his eyebrows crease in confusion. Normally, Molly would have thought that a person does not look very nice with a frown drawn on their face. Then why did she think that the crinkling over the bridge of his nose was very charming. Molly felt blood rise onto her cheeks, and she quickly looked away from him. She could see him staring at her for the next thirty seconds then look away, but refused to look back at him and instead stared ahead at Mr. Holloway call out other pairs.  
When everyone was seated in their respective seats, Molly bravely pulled her glasses out and fixed them on the bridge of her nose. She caught him looking at her again from the corner of her eye, and sighed with exasperation. These were going to be the longest forty days of her life. Mr. Holloway explained them their project and asked them to go through the chapter “Transportation in Humans”. She had read that particular chapter around ten times already at home, so she was done with the reading in hardly ten minutes. Either she was very captivating or Sherlock was one of those people who get easily distracted, because he was peering at her again. Molly breathed in and boldly turned to look at him.  
“What?”, she whipped around and focused her glare on his forehead.  
“We actually were asked to read the whole chapter comprehensively,” he said with disapproval.  
“I did,” she stated.  
“No, you skim-read it,” he looked rather annoyed. She decided to take it as jealousy over the fact that she had completed the chapter before him. Molly just shrugged, which further infuriated him as he narrowed his eyes. Molly rolled her eyes as she turned to face the teacher and her book slid a bit towards her partner, by her movement. She saw Sherlock’s head jerk towards the disturbance. He then picked up his pencil, traced a line over the area where their tables met, effectively pushing her book back towards her, “Stay on your table,” he growled. Molly was on the verge of hitting him with the heaviest book at hand, when Mr. Holloway cleared his throat.  
“Now, I hope you all have completed your chapter, because I am going to hand over a start of session quiz,” he announced as he passed the quiz papers to the class, “Don’t worry, this is not going to count in your finals. It is just so that when we start our discussion, you know what you didn’t understand from the book, and have a better understanding. You have ten minutes to complete your test, discussion between pairs is not allowed. Your time starts now.”  
The class room was ringing with the scribbling of pen on paper and hushed whispers.  
Molly was done with her quiz, within six minutes, without any discussion mind you, but kept reading through her paper for any overlooked mistakes.  
“Pulmonary vein does not pump oxygenated blood,” a voice very close to her ear drawled. Molly jumped with fright, making her chair screech against the floor. Sherlock shook his head with a smirk and bent his head over his paper, “Veins do not pump oxygenated blood.”  
Molly rested her elbow on the table and cupped her chin with a bored expression on her face, showing her disregard for him when she didn’t respond. She knew he would be glowering at her ear. However hard she would try to keep from making eye contact with him, he would somehow get her to do just the opposite. So it was for her best that she ignored him, which she did.  
“Time’s up! Exchange your papers with your partner and let’s start marking,” Mr. Holloway instructed. Sherlock placed two fingers on his paper and slid it slowly off his table and onto hers. He was almost hovering over her when Molly narrowed her eyes at his hand and thrust her paper aimlessly in his face. Sherlock groaned and twisted in his seat, setting her paper in front of him. Molly kept eyeing him as he marked her paper. When she was convinced that he wasn’t going to play any games on it, she turned her attention to his paper. She had not expected what she saw next. She had thought his handwriting to be merely squiggles, but oh dear did he make hers look like chicken scratches. The paper in front of her was an exceptional example of elegant penmanship. She was utterly lost in the neatness of it, when someone grabbed her ponytail and yanked it back. Molly’s head jerked back and she let out a surprised squeak.  
Thankfully, no one heard her, except the culprit who was grinning from ear to ear. Molly huffed and pulled her ponytail on one side and again refused to look at him, or respond.  
Eventually, Mr. Holloway arrived at the last question and smiled, “How many of you wrote ‘The Pulmonary vein pumps oxygenated blood?” Molly quickly threw her hand up in the air, but when no one else raised their hand, her shoulders slumped but her hand remained waving above her, “Only Miss Hooper? Can you explain why you wrote that that particular vein pumps oxygenated blood?”  
“Yes…umm…” Molly breathed in deeply, and tried her best to keep Sherlock’s snickering from making her question herself, “It is not necessary for a vein to pump deoxygenated and an artery to pump oxygenated blood. It is basically which way the blood is flowing. If the blood is flowing away from the heart, it is through an artery and if the blood is flowing towards the heart, it is through a vein, no matter if the blood is oxygenated or deoxygenated. Pulmonary vein carries blood from the lungs to the heart, so it is a vein. From the lungs meaning it has to have been oxygenated. That is what lungs are for…” she murmured the last sentence as she brought her hand down slowly. Sherlock’s chuckling had dwindled to a confused frown. He was staring at her again and Molly had to fight the urge to stab him in the thigh with her pen.  
“Excellent! No other way to explain it any better! As she said…” Mr. Holloway started explaining the whole process again while Molly got out her big red marker and drew a big box around the word that read ‘deoxygenated’ on Sherlock’s paper. She then calculated his marks on her finger tips and gave him an eight out of ten, followed by an unhappy smiley beside it and a few other symbols for her contentment.  
“I’ll take down your marks, if you would tell them…Mr. Leslie…” Mr. Holloway began asking marks from the pairs. Molly kept Sherlock’s paper from his prying eyes, giggling inwardly at the mess she had made of his sheet. “Sherlock Holmes?” Mr. Holloway’s voice resonated and Molly looked up with glee.  
“Eight out of ten,” she smirked as she finally turned to look at him and found him sulking and puffing his hair out from his eyes.  
“That’s very good Mr. Holmes,” Mr. Holloway smiled.  
“No, it’s not,” Molly heard him growl to himself.  
“Molly Hooper?” Mr. Holloway asked.  
“Ten.Out.Of.Ten…” Sherlock grumbled. Molly clapped her hands together with delight and gave him a big, happy smile. His mask melted away and for the first time, she saw him smile warmly. She could faintly hear Mr. Holloway praise her, but took no notice of him. She grinned as she took her paper from him and handed his to him and then her face fell. He had simply written a ‘ten out of ten’ over her paper, nothing else. While she had abhorrently destroyed his paper with big angry patterns. She guiltily looked up and saw Sherlock frown at his paper.  
“I’m sorry…” she whispered softly.  
Sherlock looked taken aback, “What for?”  
“For destroying your sheet…” she murmured.  
“Mmm…It was going to end in the dust bin anyway,” he chuckled, “But now that you’ve painstakingly sketched…uh…your thoughts onto it, I’d rather like to keep it.”  
“No…you don’t have to. I just got carried away and thought it would be really funny. I’m sorry,” she repeated. Suddenly, Sherlock wasn’t warmly smiling anymore. Instead he looked cold, jaw locked in its place as he glared at her.  
“Stop apologizing,” he said sternly. Molly thought she saw his eyes go paler, making him look dangerously intimidating. Molly wanted to tear her eyes away from him, she felt like he was going to engulf her in his coldness, but she couldn’t. Instead she found herself leaning in, when the bell rang loudly. Molly hopped in her seat, startled by the shrill ring, and looked away as she tried to gather herself and her belongings. She felt a gust of wind blow into her side as Sherlock quickly swept past her and out of the classroom, leaving her to drunkenly breathe in his expensive cologne, cigarette smoke and coffee.


	4. Fifteen Years Ago For Him - Part I

Sherlock remembered the tiny girl from his class. Small, vibrant and smart. But they had never talked. In fact, he rather avoided talking to people at his school. Boring, dull people, fighting over their sexual relations, gossiping about sexual relations, engaging in sexual relations.

Dull. Dull. Dull.

He had much important things to do, like finishing high school and getting away from the damned place. That was until he was placed into teams with Molly Hooper in his Biology class. How very convenient for him, because now he could barely concentrate on what his teacher was saying.

He vaguely remembered his teacher asking about the pronunciation of his name and then he was strolling towards the back of the class to grab his seat. He stretched his legs in front of him and felt a small presence behind him. Molly Hooper. So she had finally managed to make her way to her place. He couldn't help but smirk when she literally, dropped down in her chair and breathed in sharply. Now, he wasn't sure if she breathed in sharply because she dropped in her chair, or because her hand brushed against his, or because she just wanted to breathe in sharply. He decided to go with the latter, when the girl mustered up her courage and looked at him. Into his eyes. He had thought her eyes were black before. How embarrassing for him. He prided himself in knowing everything. Molly made him feel like he knew so less. Her eyes were far from black, they were the most delicious shade of brown. Calling it chocolate brown wouldn't be wrong, but chocolate doesn't have golden specks, unless the chocolate is-oh god, his mind was going bonkers. He could hear fans starting to spin in his brain to cool down his upper chamber. Then Molly looked away. Her cheeks blooming with an appealing pink hue. It was as if she had realized something had gone awry within him. How did she know? She doesn't even know him. How can she, within thirty-nine seconds of meeting, know that he had suffered a malfunction. He heard Mr. Holloway start the class, so he turned his attention to him. Then, she pulled out her ridiculously large glasses and put them on. He could have just crooned at how adorable she looked. Thankfully, they were given a task to do and he could softly croon later on, in her ear, when they were-No! He pulled his book towards him and darted his eyes over each sentence. The teacher had asked them to read a particular chapter, thoroughly. But the partner of his, Hooper, wouldn't do it. Unless…unless she had already done it. How could she have completely read the chapter and understood it before him. It made him feel uneasy. What made him even more anxious was that, whatever he said to her, although he knew she wasn't deaf, she just wouldn't say anything back. She simply wouldn't have any verbal bickering with him. Well then how was he supposed to display her his superiority to her. Just then Molly's book slipped towards him and he immaturely shoved it away with his pencil with curt, "Stay on your table," remark. He knew Molly was just on the edge. He prepared himself for a kick in the shins when his teacher interrupted them with a quiz. Sherlock began solving his paper when he caught a glimpse of her answer sheet. He smirked and leaned towards her, a bit too close, very much to his own liking, "Pulmonary vein does not pump oxygenated blood," he whispered out a drawl. He was extremely elated when she jumped with horror when he invading her personal space. He smirked and leaned back over his paper, "Veins do not pump oxygenated blood." He cursed himself when Molly perched her head on her arm and refused to acknowledge him. What had he done wrong! He glared at her and turned his attention to his paper, quickly finishing it before time ran out.

The teacher asked them to exchange papers between the pairs after they were done and then the discussion of answers started, in which he was infinitesimally interested. He slid his paper towards her, very dramatically and leaned in. He was just breathing her floral fragrance when she jabbed her sheet in his face. He groaned with frustration. Why wasn't she…saying anything! He took the paper from his face and began marking it neatly. Wouldn't want to ruin it for Miss. Flawless Hooper, with flawless eyes, flawless skin, flawless cheeks, flawless hair and oh! He wondered, if it would be considered normal if he tucked the loose strand of her hair behind her ear, or if he could touch her hair. Suddenly, he wanted to know how smooth and silky her hair was. Only one way to find out and get away with it easily. He yanked at her ponytail and smiled triumphantly at her. But again, she said nothing! He was going to start a tantrum any minute, when Mr. Holloway asked something he had been waiting for, "How many of you wrote 'The Pulmonary vein pumps oxygenated blood?"

As expected, Molly quickly threw her hand up in the air, but when no one else raised their hand, her shoulders slumped but her hand remained waving above her, "Only Miss Hooper? Can you explain why you wrote that that particular vein pumps oxygenated blood?"

Sherlock snickered. Oh, Molly Hooper was in trouble. But then she began explaining why she thought so, and it really did make sense. Maybe because she was correct. And indeed, she was.

They were told to mark their papers and he got very irritated by the fact that he wasn't able to score hundred percent marks like she was. She cheered gleefully at her result and turned to give him the most dazzling smile one had ever given him. And then, he didn't even know how it happened, but his frowning face was showing with a small smile. If one could melt, he definitely would have. She was fascinating him. They exchanged their papers, and this time he showed a bit of civility and stayed out of her way.

"I'm sorry…" a small voice whispered. He turned towards Molly with wonder.

"What for?"

"For destroying your sheet…"

He was not expecting that from the girl. What good is this piece of paper. And as for destroying…what does she mean-oh her lovely doodling.

"Mmm…It was going to end in the dust bin anyway…But now that you've painstakingly sketched…uh…your thoughts onto it," he laughed, "I'd rather like to keep it."

"No…you don't have to. I just got carried away and thought it would be really funny. I'm sorry," she apologized again. Why the hell is she apologizing again when I have informed her of it being perfectly fine with me. She is one of the intimidated ones then.

"Stop apologizing," he gave her a forbidding look, meant to scare her. Initially, she did look scared, to some extent. But then, why was she suddenly leaning towards him? Why was she making him lean in as well? He needed to run away. Right now. Thankfully, the bell sounded and the both of them cleared from the haze. Sherlock, too embarrassed to discuss anything right now, grabbed his books and fled the scene.


	5. Fifteen Years Ago For Her - Part II

Next day, after her last class, she was stuffing her books back into her locker when someone tapped on its door. She leaned back to find Spooky Holmes smirking at her. Her eyes widened with bewilderment and she quickly went back to her locker in an attempt to hide from him. He walked over to her left side and leaned against the lockers, where the locker’s door was neither blocking her view of him, nor his of her. She caught a glimpse of him. He was very much taller than her and lean.  
“Your face looks weird without glasses,” he muttered. She nodded as she continued setting her books upright. She never did arrange them in any order, but right now she found the task very interesting. “I’m sorry about yesterday and I’ll walk you home,” he added quickly.  
“What?!” she gasped and bumped her head against the locker, “Oww!”  
“Are you alright?” he chuckled.  
“I’m fine. I can walk home on my own,” she stated as she closed her locker and cupped her forehead.  
“No, you can’t. You won’t be wearing your glasses and you’ll trip over a rock or something, obviously,” he gestured towards the lockers and her forehead.  
In the end, she was forced into agreeing to let him walk beside her. They were just outside the school when Sally caught up with her.  
“Molly! What are you doing?” she glared at her, “We were supposed to go home together.”  
“Oh, you can come along with us then,” Molly frowned at her friend.  
“No way am I going to walk with this freak!” she snarled and was about to leave when Molly wasn’t sure what happened. She saw her hand pull back, form a fist and connect with Sally’s jaw, followed by a loud howl of pain from both the parties. Friends gathered around Sally, to examine her and tried to calm her down. Molly stood flabbergasted. She had just punched a friend of hers. And her fist hurt, a lot. She was just coming to terms with the fact and the pain, when she felt a warm hand slide into her uninjured hand.  
“Come on, we need to leave…” Sherlock’s deep voice whispered in her ear. She nodded, and followed him out onto the street quickly. They made it to a park near their school when Sherlock stopped walking and Molly walked right into his back.  
“Oh! Sorry…” she mumbled an apology and took a few steps back. She brought her injured hand up to examine it.  
“Let me see that,” he murmured and took hold of her hand gently. Molly breathed in sharply at his soft touch, “Oh…umm I’m sorry. I do these experiments and my fingers tend to get cut-” he started explaining. It took Molly sometime to realise that he was trying to explain the reason for his calloused fingers and apologizing for the roughness of his skin.  
“And your hands are still so soft?” she asked softly. Sherlock narrowed his eyes at her. The way he looked at her, made her feel like he was considering whether to twist her arm or not. She immediately lowered her eyes before Sherlock’s hands stiffened.  
“Do you hear that?” he asked as his chin tilted up. Molly looked around and tried to pick out any sound that could have piqued his interest, but all she hurt was cars honking and people chatting, “No, I here nothing.”  
Sherlock shook his head, “Forget it,” and returned his attention to Molly’s hand. He twisted and turned her hand lightly, flexing her fingers gently and then, he laughed.  
“What?” she murmured uncertainly.  
“You didn’t injure your hand at all. No broken bones, unexpectedly. Did you read about punching someone in one of your novels? Or did you research it because you knew you were going to need to punch someone like me one day?” he grinned as he let her hand go. Molly had to smile. Even at such a moment, when she had done something way out of character, Sherlock was making her smile.  
“Wait a minute…how do you know I read novels?” she asked him suspiciously.  
“Did you think I would not look inside your locker when I stood next to it?” he raised an eyebrow at her, “Pride and Prejudice is you favourite, isn’t it?”  
“Yes, but h-“  
“The book in you locker was Pride and Prejudice. And I think there was The Hobbit as well? I can read without spectacles. Favourite? Because of the dog-ears,” he said smugly.  
“Right…you can see. I can smell!” Molly smirked as she flexed her fingers slowly.  
“Excuse me?”  
“You smoke,” Molly claimed. Sherlock narrowed his eyes dangerously at her.  
“No.”  
“Yes you do, unless that was burning jealousy I smelt yesterday,” Molly frowned.  
“Why do you care?” he scowled.  
“I’m…my dad smokes. I don’t like the smell…it gives me nausea. Sorry…” she murmured with embarrassment.  
“I’m sorry…I’ll try to…umm stay away? Or, ok I’ll quit for forty days at least?” Sherlock asked.  
Molly giggled, “Forty days? No, it is fine if you want to. I don’t want you to trouble yourself because of me,” she smiled and started walking in the general direction of her home. Sherlock walked beside her silently till they reached her flat. Sherlock stood one step below her, still taller than her, on the stairs of her building when Molly saw his face contorted with distress.  
“What’s wrong?” she asked with urgency and placed a hand on his shoulder. It was the first time she had consciously made a move to touch him. Sherlock looked down at her hand on his shoulder, which was quickly withdrawn by her.  
“Why did you punch your friend, Molly?” he asked. Her name rolling on his tongue made her feel funny in the stomach.  
“I…she called you-“  
“A freak. Yes, but why did you attack her?” he asked again. Molly stared up at him with wide eyes when he leaned in, “You like me,” he said. Molly gasped and turned a deep shade of pink. She shook her head and stared at her nervously shuffling, feet. “Don’t lie, it’s no good. And don’t like me, I’m worthless.”  
“No you’re not…”  
“You’re right…I’m not. But I am a freak. And…I-I’m married to my work…” he whispered as he leaned further in.  
“Work?” she whispered hesitantly as she got lost in his dazzling eyes. They weren’t entirely aquamarine. They had a little yellow, green and grey scattered around his pupil on his iris.  
“Work…” he murmured as he turned his head unexpectedly and pressed his lips against her cheek. Just a breath later, there was a soft click of the door downstairs, followed by a loud shriek.  
“Molly!”  
Molly gasped and broke away from Sherlock. They both looked down towards the source of commotion and found Molly’s aunt standing outraged.  
“Aunt Zoe, I was-“, Molly whispered. She wasn’t sure what exactly the cause of her mother’s fury was, but she guessed it had something to do with a boy standing quite close to her.  
“Not another word, young lady. You, boy, leave. Now,” she pointed her finger at Sherlock and gestured to the door. Molly grabbed his arm and refused to let him leave. Sherlock looked up at her, smiled reassuringly and twisted his arm free from her grasp. Molly was on the verge of tears. She had a bizarre feeling that she was never going to see him. She abandoned that thought and saw him leave. “Pack your bags. We are leaving,” her aunt ordered.  
“Leaving?” she asked with a confused frown.  
“Yes, leaving. For Ireland.”  
“But why? I have school tomorrow,” she argued.  
“There are enough schools in Ireland. You can go to one of those,” she said as she went up the stairs into her flat to talk to her parents. She was never going to see Sherlock again.


	6. Fifteen Years Ago For Him - Part II

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi guys!  
> I think some explanation is needed. Molly is taken to Ireland, suddenly. You need to understand that not only her Aunt is a bit harsh, but her parents are too. Because Molly did end up going to Ireland, obviously her parents did have a say in it. If they had wanted, they could have stopped her relatives from sending her away. Also, they shouldn't have believed what someone other than Molly was saying. I mean that's how parents should be, but hers weren't.  
> Also, in the first chapter, I did write down the facts about Molly's family; how they had already planned her marriage even before her birth. You can imagine the sort of family she comes from.  
> Ok, her Aunt saw her standing close to a boy, definitely she saw the boy as potential competition. To get her away from him, she was taken away to Ireland. Why Ireland? Because, if you read Chapter 1, James and his family lives in Cork, Ireland. She had to be married. Because of Sherlock's appearance, Molly got married at a VERY EARLY AGE, i.e. eighteen years of age.  
> I belong to a country where this happens in such enormity that it has become a norm. I have nothing against Molly, nor am I promoting early marriages. I am 22 and I still don't want to get married.  
> Does this explain? Without giving too much away? :/ I hope so :)  
> I hope you do get where the story is going, and how I built Molly and Moriarty's families. It would help if you read "Chapter 1-So Abrupt Was His Appearance" after reading this explanation.  
> By the way, this is the last chapter going back fifteen years! After this we will be back in the present!  
> Happy reading :)

A few hours later, he found himself parading in his bedroom. He was annoyed at himself. There were two things which had him clawing at himself. Either he had scared the poor girl by his awfully creepy advances or he had somehow, even after his outlandish behaviour, managed to get her enamored by him. He needed to know exactly which one.

* * *

 

The next day, he set off to the hallway, after his last class to where he was sure he would find Molly. He hadn't seen her the whole day and he hoped he hadn't scared her into skipping school that day. Soon enough, he found a very familiar, brown ponytail's glimpse from behind a locker's door. He grinned as he neared her, but his eyes caught something very distracting. She was wearing a red jumper with a huge white cat, with its tongue poking out. Sherlock's grin disappeared as he cringed with disgust and tried to keep his digestive system under control. A jumper like that shouldn't even be allowed at school! It can get people sick! He groaned and plastered a big smile on his face and gently knocked on the metal door. Molly leaned back to look back. He saw her eyes widen with surprise, an unrestrained gasp escape her perfect mouth, and then she finally hid behind her locker again. She had taken her amusing glasses off, to Sherlock's dismay. Sherlock rolled his eyes at the hilarity of the situation, and went around to the other side of the locker. Finally, he could get a clear, obstruction-free view of her.

"Your face looks weird without glasses," he murmured and felt like kicking himself. Why couldn't he just have said 'Hello!' or that she looked nice with glasses. Why all the negativity! His brain's inability to perform normally, what he thought Molly wouldn't expect from him, was discouraging him. When Molly replied with a small nod, he found himself blurting, "I'm sorry about yesterday and I'll walk you home."

"What?!" Molly gasped, just as he gasped inwardly at himself, but found himself laughing when Molly, ridiculously bumped her head against the locker door, leaving behind a crease on her skin, "Oww!"

"Are you alright?" he chortled.

"I'm fine. I can walk home on my own," she murmured as she banged the locker door shut and pressed her fingers to her forehead.

"No, you can't. You won't be wearing your glasses and you'll trip over a rock or something, obviously," he gestured towards her injury, as if her situation would be obvious to her and managed to get her out of the school. However, to his great aggravation, her friend, Donovan, literally tried to snatch her from him.

"Molly! What are you doing? We were supposed to go home together!" Donovan glowered at Molly.

Sherlock half thought that Molly was going to let out a stream of apologies to him and leave with her, but she surprised him with her reply, "Oh, you can come along with us then."

"No way am I going to walk with this freak!" Donovan spat. Sherlock knew how to deal with such taunts. It wasn't something new for him, nor did he take it seriously. He was ready with a comeback, but Molly Hooper surprised him yet again by punching the daylights out of her friend. Sherlock was startled just like everyone else present around them. Why did she punch her  _friend_  for  _him_ , someone she had just met yesterday. He was busy roaming around in his mind palace for the answer when a whimper brought him back to Earth. Molly was cupping her hand in pain and cowering in the middle of the street. He had to get her away from the school before Donovan got her hands on her.

"Come on, we need to leave…" he whispered quietly and lead her towards the park. When he was sure they were far enough from the school, he stopped walking and a small person walked right into him. There were going to be apologies.

"Oh! Sorry…" Molly mumbled as expected, and peered at her injured hand.

"Let me see that," he asked and gently pulled her hand up towards his eyes. He heard Molly gasp when he touched her hand. His ugly, scaly fingers were scratching her skin, "Oh…umm I'm sorry. I do these experiments and my fingers tend to get cut-"

"And your hands are still so soft?" she asked innocently. He felt a fuse blow out in his brain. He gave his brain sometime to reboot and repeated her sentence in his mind,  _"And your hands are still so soft?"_  He knew his fingers were calloused and he knew they weren't soft. Then why was she  _lying_  to him. He narrowed his eyes at her as he studied her. Her vitals seemed normal. Except that her heart beat was elevated and then she looked away from him.

And then he heard something. A slow, soft humming.

_It's-it's pouring…_

_I'm-I'm crying…._

"Do you hear that?" he asked as he tilted his head, to catch the sound waves better into his ear. He knew every line of every song that he had ever heard, but he didn't know this one. He did miss a few lines in between, but it was unlike him to not be able to guess a song with just one line going through his mind.

"No, I hear nothing," Molly said with a frown, a few seconds later.

Perhaps, it was a new song…or it was a family song. He was being a fool taking it seriously.

"Forget it," he shook his head and looked down at her hand to examine it. All her bones seemed to be in perfect condition. No fractures, no sprains. Her hand had, obviously, gone numb when she punched her friend, and due to the numbness, she thought she felt pain in her hand. So she is perfectly fine. But why did she punch her.

 _Enamored._  His mind palace came up with the response and made his chest ache. He hesitantly and let out an almost shaky laugh.

"What?" Molly asked anxiously.

"You didn't injure your hand at all. No broken bones, unexpectedly. Did you read about punching someone in one of your novels? Or did you research it because you knew you were going to need to punch someone like me one day?" he beamed.

_Let go of her hand._

_Please._

_Let go of her hand._

_No._

_Let go of her hand._

Finally, he let go of her hand and saw her smile.

_Do not kiss her._

_Umm._

_Do not kiss her._

_Ugh._

_Do not kiss her._

"Wait a minute…how do you know I read novels?" Molly's doubtful voice made its way to his brain.

He had to laugh, "Did you think I would not look inside your locker when I stood next to it? Pride and Prejudice is your favourite, isn't it?"

_However, you are allowed to show off._

Yes, but h-"

"The book in your locker was Pride and Prejudice. And I think there was The Hobbit as well? I  _can_  read without spectacles. Favourite? Because of the dog-ears," he grinned.

"Right…you can  _see._ I can smell!" Molly smirked. Sherlock quirked an eyebrow, clearly confused at what she was on about.

"Excuse me?" he asked. Maybe he didn't hear her correctly.

"You smoke," she stated.

_Shit._

"No," he squinted at her angrily.

"Yes you do, unless that was burning jealousy I smelt yesterday," she whispered.

_She cares._

"Why do you care?" he spat angrily.

"I'm…my dad smokes. I don't like the smell…it gives me nausea, thinking that the person in front of me is…is actually intentionally  _beckoning_  death. Sorry…" she looked away from him. He was confused. Why was  _she_  apologizing when  _he_  was the one smoking and making her uncomfortable. He forgot why he smoked. He forgot how the cigarette called to him. He forgot how soothing its smoke was for him. He only knew that she felt sick at home around the smoke, and the only time she was away from home was when she was at school and now he was making her sick too. He needed to stop.

"I'm sorry…I'll try to…umm stay away? Or, ok I'll quit for forty days at least?" he murmured, hoping it would be enough for her to not be repelled by him. And then she was laughing. Laughing at him.

"Forty days? No, it is fine if you want to. I don't want you to trouble yourself because of me," she shook her head and turned as she started walking towards her home. Sherlock walked with her, while his mind palace worked up a tantrum in his head. Why couldn't he just kiss her. She was being so kind and considerate towards him, something he hadn't felt in ages, and all he did was make her feel macabre.

"What's wrong?" Molly whispered. Sherlock blinked and found himself in Molly's apartment. She was looking at him with a concerned frown and a hand on his shoulder. He looked at his shoulder frowned at the hand and just a second later, much to his chagrin, it was gone.

"Why did you punch your friend, Molly?"

"I…she called you-"

"A freak. Yes, but why did you attack her?" he leaned in to get a better view of her eyes. Were her pupils dilating? He felt like swearing out loud and instead he said, "You like me."

Just as predicted, Molly breathed in sharply through her mouth and her cheeks coloured up with a coral hue. She shook her head and stared at the floor.

"Don't lie, it's no good. And don't like me, I'm worthless."

"No you're not…" Molly started. Why was she defending him, she barely knew him.

"You're right…I'm not. But I  _am_  a freak. And…I-I'm married to my work…" he whispered. He fired away every abusive word he knew at the dim sunlight seeping in through the window nearby, in his mind. The faint sunlight was casting a beautiful shadow of her eyelashes over her eyes.

"Work?" Molly asked huskily. He was inevitably going to drown into the amber eyes, when he heard keys in the door.

"Work…" he replied and pressed his lips against her soft, blooming cheek. His lips lingered longer than socially acceptable when there was a loud shriek from downstairs.

"Molly!"

Sherlock pulled away and looked down at the source of the pandemonium. He was going to call it pandemonium, obviously.

"Aunt Zoe, I was-", Molly murmured guiltily.

"Not another word, young lady. You, boy, leave. Now," the woman pointed her finger at him, making Sherlock scowl. Her finger was shaking, he noticed. But not with anger. It looked like she was shaking with fear. Fear of what, he wondered. He took one step down the stairs when he felt Molly grab his arm with a firm grip. Sherlock looked up at her, and knew she didn't want him to leave. Now, he wasn't going to make Molly stand rebel against her family. He smiled softly as he twisted his arm free. He looked at her one last time and left the apartment. But he didn't leave. He pressed his ear against the door and listened to the heated conversation.

"Pack your bags. We are leaving."

"Leaving?"

"Yes, leaving. For Ireland."

"But why? I have school tomorrow."

"There are enough schools in Ireland. You can go to one of those."

There was a thunder of angry footsteps going up the stairs.

Then silence.


	7. The Crime Scene

Imagine his surprise, when he came to the Moriarty's mansion in Ireland and found the smart, lively girl who always had colour in her cheeks when she looked at him, huddled in the corner in baggy clothes, her skin white and sullen. He frowned with concern at her state. He knew the criminal from within the house, just by looking at Molly. Everyone looked healthy and comfortable, except Molly Hooper.

 _Molly Moriarty_ , he corrected himself. He remembered when he had walked up to her and she had recognized him, he saw a glimpse of fear, anger and hope in her eyes.

He did like to tease her still. The way she'd get irritated and then huff at him angrily, then apologise. She was so intelligent and so empathetic for everyone and now, he felt as if someone had taken something of his, crushed it beneath their feet and left it for him to see.

When he had touched her later on, she had cried out in pain.

_Torturous in-laws._

"He's beating you," he growled.

"No, you grabbed my arm too hard," she whispered. Sherlock felt like yanking his hair in anger. Now she was defending her husband. Why can't this woman, ever, look after herself  _first_.

"I know how  _hard_  I was holding you. This man needs a piece of my mind!"

"No, you are not!"

"Excuse me?" he snorted. She can't stop him.

"It is my life. My  _married_  life, and you should stay out of it," she narrowed her eyes. Apparently, she can stop him.

"Molly, he's hurting you! For goodness sake!"

"Why do you care? In fact, I don't care why you do. We both are married, we should just…just keep our distance…" Molly was frowning and saying that he was  _married._

"I'm not married," he frowned with confusion.

"Oh, you aren't married to your work anymore, are you?" she mocked him. Sherlock stepped back as his eyes widened with realization. He wanted to tell her that he wasn't…but that he was married to his work…but he wasn't married like  _that_. Instead, he just kept opening and closing his mouth when his mind palace reminded him that he had to get to the bottom of the case.

"Molly, I'm sorry about th-"

"Don't be," she cut him off and was leaving the library.

"You don't understand, I'm sorry about the fact that I will be a frequent visitor from now on," he snarled and brushed past her out of the library. He was going to take this case, very personally.

* * *

 

Sherlock stomped back to crime, feeling a bit, or in fact, very agitated by the little, unexpected, reunion he had had with Molly. Something was very out of place with this family, he was sure about that. He knew Molly wasn't entirely happy and comfortable with her marriage in the family, but she didn't come straight with it. She wound her way around the point, never really saying it, but obviously,  _implying_  she was not happy at all.

He grunted and yanked his scarf off. It was getting a bit hot for him.

"You ok, mate?" John asked when he saw his friends approach.

"Hmm…what did you find?" he asked Lestrade.

"Well, I've got three officers asking around in the neighbourhood if they heard-"

"Dull. Waste of resources," Sherlock grumbled.

"I'm sorry?" John asked.

'It is very obvious that the victim made no sound at all."

"Obvious?"

"Did you even ask around? The man was mute! This investigation is going nowhere if you people do not upgrade your brains to somewhere near mine!"

"Oh…right, of course…"Lestrade took the scathing remarks bravely.

"What else? In fact, don't bother. I will check all the rooms by myself," he declared and was about to leave when John coughed. Sherlock groaned and looked at Lestrade with a big fake smile, "May I, Graham?"

"Gerry…" Lestrade sighed.

Sherlock's smile faltered, "Gerry...? I thought it was Greg!"

John snickered and tugged at Sherlock's arm, "Come on, Sherlock. We've got work to do." Sherlock glared daggers at a very happy Lestrade.

They were making their way up the stairs, when they ran into Molly.

"Mrs. Moriarty," John greeted her.

"Hello, Dr. Watson," she gave him a weak smile.

"Can you show us the rooms? We don't know which one is whose so…" Sherlock asked quietly.

John snorted, "You'll deduce it, you big g-oomph!" John gasped when Sherlock kicked him in the shins.

"Please?" Sherlock repeated with a blank face at Molly. Molly scratched the back of her head, then nodded.

They followed her up the stairs towards the hallway. The hallway was large and lead to six rooms, three on each side and a large window on the other end.

"Let's start with this one," Sherlock gestured to the first room on his left. Molly reached forward and twisted the door knob, pushing the door in and beckoned them inside.

"This is Glenda's bedroom, Mr. Holmes…" she murmured. She stood by one corner, her hand holding her upper arm, out of habit.

Sherlock almost flinched at the ugly appellation, but quickly caught himself, "Glenda?" Sherlock asked with a confused frown.

"My mother-in-law…"

"Mother-in-law!" he said almost simultaneously, "Right…" he nodded as he strolled around in the room, his eyes sweeping every corner of the room. He traipsed over to the window and peered outside, "Hmm…"

"What is it?" John asked, who was busy looking underneath the bed. When he didn't get a response, he shrugged and looked at Molly, "So, you've known Sherlock since-?"

"John," Sherlock murmured, "Stop talking."

"Right…it's his thing with the mind palace-" John began explaining a very bemused Molly.

"John!" he yelled, making John pull his hands up in defense and Molly gasp with fright. Sherlock breathed in deeply and gave the room a one over look. He then made a beeline for the bedside table, and yanked the drawer open. The three of them leaned over to look at the contents. Books, pens, postcards, a withered white rose and a photograph, which Sherlock quickly put into his pocket, "Next room, please."

Molly nodded and exited the room. Sherlock made towards the exit when John blocked his path, "What?"

"She has lost a family member," John reminded him.

"Yes, that is why we are here, John. Do try to keep up," Sherlock scowled.

John breathed in and exhaled to tame his anger, "Try to be kind to her."

"I am being kind," Sherlock pushed him out of his way and entered Room Number Two on the left, as he liked to call it. John groaned and followed Sherlock's lead.

"This is Father's room…was…Sorry…" Molly shook her head and looked away, apologetically.

"You can…go downstairs if you want to? We'll take it from here," John tried to sooth her, but looking at Sherlock uncertainly at the same time.

"No she won't, John. She needs to see this. I  _want_  her to see this," he frowned at John. Without giving Molly an ounce of attention, he whipped around and scowled at the scene in front of him. He knelt down, quite gracefully, on his hands and knees and took a long sniff of the floor, "Bleach…there was something here that was cleaned, I can't smell it…who cleans the floors, Molly?" he stood up abruptly and fired his question at her.

Molly, caught out of the blue, stuttered, "Umm…I do…but I don't use bleach…damages the wood. And I didn't clean any floors yesterday…" she explained a bit tentatively. She looked up and saw Sherlock smiling at her. Molly felt her ears heat up rapidly and she averted her eyes.

"Well done. Bleach does damage wooden floors. Whoever did the cleaning, didn't seek expert opinion and was cleaning floors for the very first time. But then, why didn't they get  _you_  to clean the floors, when you do it usually? Meaning there was something here…something he or she didn't want anyone else to see. Something like…" he pointed his finger towards a tiny, dark red, dried droplet of something on the headboard.

"Blood…" John whispered with epiphany.

"Exactly. So we know that the murder was not actually committed in the lounge. It was right here, in this room. This is the crime scene," he chuckled softly with delight, "Would you be so kind and go tell Lestrade and Dimmock about this, John?" he directed a large, toothy grin at John. John huffed, clenched and unclenched his fist, but eventually left the room. Molly stood quietly in the corner with her eyes glued to the floor, "Molly? Are you alright?"

"I'm fine…thanks…" she murmured.

"Does your arm still hurt?" he whispered with concern and took a step closer, with his hands clasped behind his back.

"Oh…no it doesn't…I didn't…know I was holding it…" she frowned at her arm and let it go, 'Do you want to see the next room?"

"Molly…"

"I'll open the next room…" she muttered and practically ran out of the room to open Room Number Three on the left, "This is Joseph's room," she informed when Sherlock appeared in the doorway. He nodded and gave it one look from the hallway.

"Too many books…hardly read, judging by the dust settled on them. Don't you clean this room?"

"No…Joseph asked no one to touch anything here."

"Why?"

"He never said."

"And no one asked?" Sherlock raised a quizzical eyebrow.

"No," she shook her head.

"Lovely family you have here…" Sherlock said scornfully.

"I love them, Sherlock," she was getting very irritated by his unwanted remarks about her family.

"Then what exactly would you call what you feel for m-"

"Next room!" she exclaimed before he could complete his sentence and walked out, hoping Dr. Watson would return soon. She opened Room Number One on the right and hurried inside, 'This is the guest room."

"Boring. Close it. No point in being here," he shook his head and took a step back to let her close the door.

"Alright…" she walked to Room Number Two on the right, "This is…-"

"Your room…" he sighed sadly.

"My and my husband's room," she corrected him.

"Yes…" he scowled as he stepped inside. He knew he wouldn't find anything related to the case here, but everything related to her loathsome husband. The room was painted in a blazing red colour. The furniture was dark oak. Everything about the room made his eyes hurt and bizarrely, feel wet. Somehow, he managed to order his legs to move towards a very peculiar cupboard. He tilted his head with pounding curiosity as he pulled open its door and growled angrily, "He uses this?" he asked and pointed at the riding crop, worn out ropes and pieces of cloth, stashed inside.

"I don't know what you are talking about," she crossed her arms.

"You know wh-"

"If you're done, I'll show you the next room."

"Why won't you let me talk to you?"

"I don't want to talk to you, Mr. Holmes."

"My name is Sherlock," he felt offended by the formality of her phrase.

"I'll show you the last room then…" she quietly left the room to open the last room.

"Molly…"

"It's Mrs. Moriarty to you," she corrected him.

"I am not calling you that!" he pulled her into the last room and pushed her against the wall, "I am  _not_  calling to you that…that  _hideous_  cognomen! You are…you are my friend! I will call you...Molly…" he blinked and realized he had her trapped between him and the wall. Her big, doe eyes didn't look beautiful anymore, because all he saw was fear in them, but her hands clasped over her chest showed she was not going to shove him away, as if she deserved it, as if she was accustomed to it, "No…Oh God, I'm so sorry…Molly, I didn't mean to…" he pulled away from her severely and stumbled back, unable to understand what he had just done. He was wheezing, trying to get as much oxygen to his brain to formulate a coherent sentence, to beg for her forgiveness. But the process wasn't fast enough, because she left.

She left him panting. Not that she wasn't panting herself.

She left him helpless. Not that she didn't feel helpless herself.

She, on the other hand, wanted to hold him, vehemently. She wanted his help. She  _needed_  his help, no matter how many times she might angrily try to discard his offers of help, she desperately needed it. If only she could tell him.


	8. I Will See It First

“Where were you, John? I asked you to inform the inspectors and come back upstairs,” he said angrily. He had managed to catch his breath and made his way downstairs to the supposed crime scene.

“No you didn’t. You wanted me out of the way so you could talk to her,” he gestured to the pale girl, who had returned to her mother-in-law.

“Shut up,” he scowled at him and continued walking towards Lestrade, “What did you find?”

“A bit of dirt near the window, come here,” he led them towards a large window near the door and pointed to a sample of dirt being collected by an officer into an evidence bag. The brown substance was scattered around nine inches of the area, and another patch of nine inches of dirt was present about a foot away from the first area.

“Footsteps!” Sherlock exclaimed and clapped his hands together.

“Sorry?” Lestrade screwed up his face in confusion.

“Here and here,” he pointed to both the areas, “These are footsteps. Someone came in from the outside and…” he kneeled down till his nose was barely a millimetre away from the dirt and sniffed loudly, “This is not dirt. It is soil.”

“Alright…but we can’t get the prints can we…?” Lestrade asked while the detective was busy tapping away on his phone.

“We can, actually. It rained yesterday for approximately six hours, around the time of the murder. If the murderer came in from the window, with dry soil on his shoes, it wouldn’t have been raining then and the soil outside in the garden would have been dry as well. But when he would have left, he must have gone from where he came, the window, and when he left, it was raining and he would have walked through wet ground leaving-“

“Footprints!” Lestrade exclaimed.

“Footwear outsole impressions!” Sherlock scowled.

“Anderson!” Lestrade bellowed.

“Not him! Let me see the prints first!” Sherlock groaned.

“We have to prepare casts!”

“I’ll see the evidence _first_!”

“Alright, girls. Let’s just let Sherlock see it first,” John patted Lestrade on the shoulder while Sherlock stomped outside.

John came out minutes later and found Sherlock with his magnifier out examining the shoeprint, “Nine inches, rather small. Height…five nine to six feet…” he got up slowly and walked in the direction of the footprints, “Then slipped on his way out,” he pointed towards a faded brown mark on the concrete pavement, “On his face…see how the mark fades as it goes back?”

“So…he slipped when he got out from the resisting ground onto firm ground?” John asked.

“Yes…shows how unaware he was of his surroundings. In fact…Lestrade did an excellent job by getting a few officers to ask around. The culprit might have been seen by someone without him noticing,” he grinned devilishly.

“So you’ll go and commend Lestrade?” John asked.

“Commend? What for?” Sherlock scrunched his nose.

“Oh, never mind,” he waved his hands in exasperation.

“I hope you’re not trying to fly, because that is utterly useless and extremely repulsive,” Sherlock remarked with disgust etched on his face.

“I am not, you git!” John growled and went back into the house.

“Git…” Sherlock grumbled as he followed him in and found Lestrade.

“Done?”

“Yes. You can now let your ignoramuses loose on the evidence,” he drawled.

“Ignoramuses…” Lestrade repeated with difficulty, then turned on John, “Who says that nowadays? What _aeon_ is he from?” he complained.

“The _Victorian epoch_ judging by the deerstalker,” John grinned.

“If you two are done comparing your English language skills, which are miserably crude, can we continue the investigation?” Sherlock disputed.

“We weren’t comparing our English language, Sherlock. We were sharing a laugh,” Lestrade rolled his eyes.

“Well don’t. It’s a crime scene. Very inappropriate. Tell him, John.”

“I tell you, if I kill him, it won’t be counted as murder, but as a social service! I might get a medal for Christ’s sake!” Lestrade bellowed.

“I’m going to examine the body. If the Garda Síochána have a problem with it, you will deal with them,” Sherlock drawled and moseyed towards the body. John shrugged his shoulders in defeat and followed him, “John what do you think?”

“I think, that you’re being exceptionally rude,” John murmured as he leaned down and pressed his gloved hand over the slit of his throat, “Death from loss of blood, I think. The slit doesn’t look deep enough to cut through the windpipe.”

“Yes…now look at his fingernails and these marks,” he pointed to the dead man’s hands and the scratches on the floor, leading away from the corpse.

“Do we follow the marks to where they are coming from?” John asked.

“You tell me. Where do you think they are coming from?”

“The…the bedroom?”

“Exactly. Which means?”

“That he was…oh my god! He was alive and very much conscious!” John gasped.

“Precisely. He saw his killer. But who was he…?” he asked himself.

“I’m sorry, _he_?”

“Yes, ‘he’ John. It is obvious from the shoeprint that it was a man,” Sherlock huffed with disappointment.

“You sound like you expected something else?” John frowned.

“Yes. I expected you to be much more intelligent,” he pursed his lips and kneeled down towards the corpse before John could say anything, “He used one of his hands to leave the marks…meaning his other hand was numb or he was holding something.”

“It is folded in a fist…he might be holding something…” John exclaimed and gently pried open the fist to find a small piece of paper.

“Give it to me, John,” Sherlock thrust his impatient hand in John’s face. John narrowed his eyes at his hand, nearly going cross-eyed, when he slapped the paper in his hand. Ignoring his attitude, Sherlock twisted and turned and even tasted the paper, “Government document.”

“How do you know?”

“It tastes like a smoky government place. It is a legal document. Most probably Mr. Moriarty’s will. Where is the rest of it…” Sherlock closed his eyes.

“Well…we looked through all the rooms…” John said, but Sherlock didn’t reply, “Sherlock-oh fine!” Sherlock was lost in his mind palace, meaning whatever John would say, will fall on deaf ears.

“Oh!” Sherlock exclaimed, “The basket!”

‘What?!” John blurted out, but his friend was already dashing up the stairs to Jeremy’s room. John followed him quickly and found Sherlock leaning with his head in the dustbin.

“Burnt! It’s all burnt!” Sherlock’s voice echoed from inside the basket.

“What is?”

“The will!” he groaned.

“Lestrade will send it for examination and I’m sure we’ll get the results, including what was written on it,” John consoled, though a bit confused by his friend’s unusual, ignorant behaviour.

“Yes, John. But I won’t get to see it first, will I?” Sherlock tried sounding as patient as he could, but failed miserably.

“Oh…” John gritted his teeth, when his behaviour made absolute sense.


	9. Molly's Keen Eyes

Sherlock wasn't happy. Not in the slightest. How will he determine the motive if he doesn't get to see the crucial piece of evidence  _before_  everyone else? He did not want his analysis to be biased by the fact that others had  _manhandled_  evidence. No, he wouldn't allow it.

But, to his much dismay, he wasn't skilled to…well…he couldn't handle burnt evidence. He had enough intellect to understand that he would sabotage the investigation instead, if he tried to have his own way with the delicate evidence.

_But still!_

He liked to create tantrums. And it was time for another one. He grabbed his hair and yanked at them, hard enough to hurt when he felt a nudge on his shoulder. Curious as to how his mental agony subsided at the soft nudge and how his need to stage a tantrum disappeared and how all those needs got replaced by a puzzling need to know who indeed had prodded him to sanity, he whipped around and spluttered. Molly Hoop- _Moriarty,_  stood in front of him, offering him a cup of coffee.

"Coffee? It might help…I didn't add milk, it reduces the effect of caffeine…but if you want me to, I'll add some?" she asked politely. Sherlock squinted at her. Why did she bring him coffee after what had happened between them?

_Remorse. But what for?_

"I…Thank you…" he nodded and brought his hand forward to take the cup. His fingers brushed hers lightly as he took the cup and took a very long and loud sip. Molly couldn't help but giggle at his boyish behaviour.

"You haven't changed…at all. Except…well grown big…and a few wrinkles, here and there...which is good by the way, yes…I should stop talking…"

"You haven't changed either. Except, grown sad and sadder…"

"You don't know that," she smiled a smile which didn't reach her eyes, as she shook her head, "But you have given up smoking, haven't you?"

"How did you know that?" he smiled with amazement.

"When you were…umm…mauling me-"

"Molly, I'm very sorry-"

"It's fine. I'm used to it-"

"You shouldn't be," he shook his head animatedly, "You shouldn't have to be."

Molly narrowed her eyes at him, staying quiet for a few seconds before continuing, "I smelt your cologne. Nothing else. I remember you used to reek of cigarette smoke," she smirked.

"Oh God! Was it that bad?" he groaned with disgust.

"I am afraid so," she grinned, "But it is good that you quit. You'll live eight years longer."

"Ten," he murmured as he took another sip from his cup.

"Ok…ten."

"Have you eaten anything since…you know…"

"Well…I had a strawberry. Does it count?"

"No. Go eat something that counts as food."

"Chocolate?"

"Food, Molly. Vegetables, meat or whatever. Don't  _eat…_ water."

"Strawberry is not water."

"Strawberry is ninety two percent water. Eight percent doesn't make food."

"It does for me."

"Molly…go have a twelve-inch sub, for God's sake!"

"Calories…" she smirked.

"God…you have already had food haven't you?"

"Maybe…" she grinned slyly.

"Ugh, you're still just as infuriating as before…maybe a little more…" he smiled into his cup.

"That's a good development!" she smiled delightedly.

"For you, yes."

* * *

 

"How's he dealing with his current uselessness at the crime scene?" Lestrade asked John.

"Have a look for yourself," John looked somewhere over Lestrade's shoulder. Lestrade followed his gaze and his mouth formed an 'O'.

"What's going on?" he whispered.

"We were just saved by Mrs. Moriarty, I tell you. He was on the brink of tearing this place apart, but she brought him coffee just in time. Did you get any coffee?" John asked.

"No, you?" Lestrade grinned with a knowing glint in his eyes.

"No," John joined in with a mischievous smile.

They kept passing each other evil smirks when Sherlock walked towards them.

"Did you collect all the shoes, Gargoyle?"

Lestrade turned red in the face and started laughing loudly.

"Sherlock!" John frowned at him, "He was joking, Greg."

"Oh! Oh, I know! I know, he is a funny guy, isn't he?" he grinned.

"I said, did you or did you not, collect all the shoes under this roof?" Sherlock repeated as he set his empty coffee cup on a table.

"I did. You don't need to tell me, Strix!"

Sherlock narrowed his eyes at him, "Of course, I do. Now, we are going to depart for our residence, to ponder over the case. I can't do that here, it's just too occupied with idiots. Follow me, John," Sherlock strolled out while Lestrade eyed John.

"Is he by any chance a relative of the Queen? Or does he do that to irritate me?"

"I count Mycroft as Queen, so yes, he is a relative of the Queen," he winked and followed Sherlock outside.

* * *

 

The next day, John was sitting in a lounge chair, watching the telly, while Sherlock was constantly blocking his view by his anxious pacing.

"Something is not right, John."

"I know."

"No you don't."

"You are rude to Lestrade, you stole a piece of evidence and you're ogling at a married woman."

"Stop being so shallow. What evidence? Where was Joseph Moriarty? Has he not been informed of his father's death?"

"The photo you stole from Glenda's room. He must have been informed."

"It's nothing. Just her other daughter-in-law, Irene Adler's photo. Then where is he?"

Sherlock and John were staring at each other when John coughed awkwardly and Sherlock's phone chimed.

Sherlock pulled his phone out and flicked through the message, his face illuminated by the screen light and a happy smile, "Aha! Joseph Moriarty has been kind enough to grace us with his presence at the crime scene, finally. I need to meet him now. Come on, John," Sherlock pulled his Belstaff on grabbed his scarf as he made for the door.

"What's with your English?"

"The game is on, John!"

"You mean the business has commenced, Dr. Watson?"

Sherlock scrunched his nose in confusion, "No. Why would you say that?"

"Just get a cab…" John groaned.

* * *

 

"Where were you last night, Mr. Moriarty?" Sherlock asked Joseph, inquisitively.

"I was out of country."

"Which country?"  
"England."

"City?"

He paused for a millisecond, but Sherlock noticed, "Breadfordshire."

"You mean  _Bed_ fordshire?" Sherlock smirked.

"Yes. I don't really understand the British accent…"

"Clearly. Where is Bedfordshire, exactly?"

"Uh…"

"It isn't a city, you see."

"Oh…I was somewhere near the south of Breadfor-Bedfordshire…"

"Hmm…" Sherlock's eyes travelled down the man's frame, "Mr. Moriarty do you my asking why your clothes are rumpled? I presumed a man of your stature would wear clean, pressed clothes…" he smirked at him. Obviously, he had gotten wet in the rain in  _Breadfordshire_  and had put them up for nature to dry them. How very… _lazy_.

"I…uh as soon as I got the news of…well, news, I put up whatever my hands found without caring what it was…" he shook his head sadly.

"And yet, you're wearing a perfect Windsor knot around your neck. Do you mind if we take your shoes?" he gave him a maniac grin.

"I'm sorry, what?!"

"Your shoes. We've collected all men's shoes except this pair that you're wearing."

"Oh…right…can I have at least a pair with me? I will have to go out in a few hours…" he murmured uncertainly.

"Of course, you can! Anderson!" Sherlock barked and Anderson came running at his side, "Give him a pair of his shoes that have been examined. And take the pair he is wearing for examination. I hope this helps, Mr. Moriarty," he grinned devilishly.

"Yes…I guess…"

"Thank you for your cooperation, Mr. Moriarty. Please try not to leave Cork till we advise you to," he smiled at the man, whipped around and his face held nothing but scorn. He strode over to Lestrade and spat, "He was in Breadfordshire last night, Lestrade. Go send your team to search Breadfordshire."

"Breadfordshire…" Lestrade scribbled the name on a piece of paper, "Where is it? UK or Ireland?"

"Oh God…please tell me…in fact, don't," he held his hand up in front of Lestrade's face, "Don't tell me. I will tell you. There is no such place as  _Breadfordshire_ ," he shook his head and mumbled incoherent swears under his breath, "He meant Bedfordshire, which I hope you know, is in the UK."

Lestrade had balled the piece of paper in his fist and shoved it into his pocket, "Don't try to be smart with me, you bastard," he grabbed Sherlock's collar roughly.

"Excuse me, detective?" a small voice interrupted them. They looked around with an amusing look of surprise and found Molly, nervously swaying on her feet.

"Molly!" Sherlock smiled and yanked his collar from Lestrade's grasp.

"I hope I'm not interrupting something?" she asked guiltily, looking from Sherlock to Lestrade.

"No, Molly. What is it?" Sherlock asked softly and pushed Lestrade back.

"I found something for the detective. I'm not sure if it can help, but I thought it could be important," she murmured.

"Of course, what is it?" Sherlock asked.

"Detective Lestrade…?" she called out.

"No, whatever you have, you can show it to me," Sherlock blocked Lestrade's way, who just groaned.

"But he's the detective in charge of-"

"And I am the consulting detective because these people lack the analytical skills tha-"

Molly gave him a very stern, annoyed look, that impressively muted Sherlock, "Detective, I found this in the garden…" she handed a tiny piece of paper to Lestrade, who gave Sherlock a smug grin.

"Well, this is a receipt definitely from…Webster Weaponry. Wait a minute…purchase of ammunition?  _Gun?_ " he gave Sherlock a baffled look, "Isn't the weapon a knife or something like that? A gun doesn't leave a slit in your throat."

"See what I mean, Molly? They lack the intellectual ability to deduce something as simple as a receipt," Sherlock drawled, pompously and snatched the receipt from Lestrade's hands, "Give me that! It isn't a receipt. It is an invoice. It is a small ammunition store, judging by the cheap quality of its ink-"

"The weapon was used and then sold at the weaponry shop? But wasn't it a knife? Why would-"

"Does it say that it was a gun?" Sherlock waved the paper in Lestrade's face.

"No, but-"

"Then it isn't a gun. Weaponry shops don't only trade in guns or such ammunition," he murmured and turned to Molly, "Where did you find it? Can you show me the exact place?"

"Sure…" Molly nodded and led them outside, into the garden. They walked a bit further along a faded path which ended near the house's wall bordered with pink roses, "Here. I was checking on the flowers when I saw this paper. I thought it was scrap until I read what was written on it."

Sherlock nodded and looked up at the wall. Three windows of the lounge, and three windows above it, one of each the bedrooms on the right side of the hallway, opened into the garden, "That's your room, isn't it?" he pointed at the second window on the first floor.

"Yes…" Molly nodded.

"Thank you, Molly," Sherlock smiled and stepped back to let her leave.

"So?" Lestrade asked just as Sherlock saw Molly return inside and the two Moriarty brothers leave the premises of the house.

"John!"

John reappeared from behind a tree it seemed, "Yes?"

"We need to follow these two  _brothers_. You go after James. I will go after Joseph. And Lestrade, you go to Webster Weaponry. Drag the owner with you and bring him to the address I will text you later. Can't say anything more right now, Lestrade," he shook his head and ran out of the gates.

"What's going on?" John asked, his voice laced with worry.

"Just follow James Moriarty. Keep an eye on where he goes and who he talks to. That's all. And remain discreet!" Sherlock gasped out and hailed a taxi, "You take the next one," he jumped into the taxi and slammed the door shut, "Follow that cab!" he yelled at the driver as he pointed to a quickly departing black cab.

* * *


	10. Irene Adler

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Irene Adler is a bit OOC here, purposely. She's not very confident. She is a dominatrix but not a blackmailer.

Sherlock sat on the very edge of his seat, in anticipation of catching the culprit. Because he was one hundred percent sure, that he was following him, Joseph Moriarty.

He wasn't sure where the cab was going, even though he had a steady eye fixed on the black cab ahead of them. Suddenly, the cab swerved into the residential area and stopped in front of a very flamboyant house. Sherlock's cab stopped a few cars back, while Sherlock watched with a keen eye.

Joseph Moriarty exited the cab, paid the cabbie with shaky fingers and pressed the buzzer of the house. A few seconds later the door opened and a pair of pale slender arms beckoned him in.

Sherlock huffed as he quickly paid the driver and swiftly exited the cab. He strolled over to the house and traced a finger on the golden name plate. Slanted "Irene Adler" was engraved on the name plate.

He put up a big smile on his face and pressed the matching gold buzzer. He could faintly hear the buzz sound inside the house, the clicking of heels against linoleum, when the door flew open.

"Ms. Irene Adler? My name is Sherlock Holmes," he pushed his way in past the surprised woman, "I am here for Joseph Moriarty."

Her heavy breathing gave her away, "I'm sorry, who?"

"Oh don't be so dramatic. You know who he is and who I am and…and I will most probably find Joseph Moriarty…" he made his way past her, walked into the lounge and grinned, "Aha! Sleeping on your couch. Care to explain,  _why?_ "

"Umm…"

"Maybe, an area not being occupied by a dirty man would suit your taste? Hmm?" he gestured towards another room. Irene walked with heavy steps into the dining room and looked at him with dread.

"Well?" she murmured.

"Well, Ms. Irene Adler, would you care to explain what this man is doing in your flat?" Sherlock sat down on a chair and rested his elbows on the table.

"Sleeping?"

"I saw that. Why is he sleeping in your house? What is he to you? What are you to him?" he sighed with exasperation.

"He's…my ex-husband…"

"Yes…and?"

"And…he's here…"

He huffed and rolled his eyes, "Good. Why is he here, when he has a much larger home a few streets away?" Sherlock asked with his hands steepled under his chin. When she didn't respond, he narrowed his eyes at her, "Ms. Adler, you have two choices under the circumstances you find yourself in. Either, you get a trial with Mr. Moriarty as an accomplice and get to spend more or less your entire life behind bars or, you get a trial without him because you cooperated with the police by providing crucial information and get pardoned by a few years. Which one do you think is the best for you?" He raised an eyebrow at her.

He clearly saw Irene gulp and weight her choices before she began talking, "He came here yesterday, in the afternoon," Sherlock smiled when she began talking, "He said he had some urgent business with someone in this neighbourhood, so I let him stay. Then he left in the evening, came back at night. And I think he left again in the middle of the night because I was…umm…"

"You were?"

"I was…umm busy with…something and I heard the main door click…I don't know when he came back, but he was sleeping on the couch when I woke up in the morning…" she blurted out.

"Excellent!" Sherlock clapped his hands together and stood up, "Let's talk to Mr. Moriarty next," he walked out and waited on one side of the room.

Irene looked from him to the snoring man, then back at him, "Do you want me to wake him up?"

"If you have another way of communicating with a dozing man, delight me?"

She bit her lip and walked towards Joseph, tentatively, "Joseph…"

"A little louder would help," Sherlock nodded with an impatient smile.

"Joseph!" she yelled in the sleeping man's ear. The man sat up with a high pitched scream followed by another scream when he saw the detective.

"Oh…hel-hello…umm Mr. Sherlock Holmes. W-What brings you here? I just came h-here for…to…"

"To?"

"Sleep!"

"Sleep?"

"Couldn't sleep at my house with all the police creating havoc…"

"Hmm…boring. So where were you last night, Mr. Moriarty? I've had a lovely chat with Ms. Adler here," Sherlock talked while he fired a text message to Lestrade to bring his team at the house, "She tells me something different regarding your whereabouts."

"Umm…Mr. Holmes…"

"Yes, I am very much listening…"

"I was here…well…"

He was interrupted by a knock, as expected by Sherlock, who kept his eyes glued to Joseph, "Ms. Adler, do you mind getting the door? It isn't nice to keep visitors waiting…"

Irene cautiously walked towards the door, casting dubious looks at Joseph, and opened the door. Immediately Lestrade, Dimmock and John came rushing in.

"Where is he?" Sherlock finally removed his eyes from Joseph and looked at Lestrade.

"Where is who?" Lestrade frowned.

"Oh God…must you all be so boring. Webster Weaponry's owner!" he growled.

"Oh, yeah. He's in the car outside," Lestrade gestured his thumb over his shoulder.

"Well, bring him in!" he beckoned urgently.

"Alright…" Lestrade heavily walked out and brought a small, bald man in his early sixties.

"Hello. I'm Sherlock Holmes," Sherlock grinned while the old man gawked at him, possibly Sherlock even saw something drip from his mouth.

_Drooling._

"Now, do you recognize this man?" Sherlock pointed an accusing finger at a very scared Joseph.

With much difficulty, the man twisted his head around to see where he was pointing and gasped, "Oh! Yes sir! I very much do! This man came into my shop…I think today…Yes! Today, very early in the morning."

"Yes. Now what happened when he came?"

"Well, he had a very peculiar knife in his hand. An antique worth a lot of money! The handle was pure ivory and the blade so fine and the shine, Mr. Holmes! You should have seen the beauty-"

"Yes, a murder was committed with the very same beauty. Now, I would very much love to see the knife because it is a homicide investigation and the knife is the murder weapon," he thrust his hand forward, rather rudely, "Can you hand it over?"

"Mu-murder-oh! I don't have it on me!" the man raised his arms defensively.

"Where is it then?"

"In the shop!"

Sherlock rolled his eyes and fixed a murderous glare at Lestrade, "Tell me your team is at the shop!"

"It is," Lestrade gave a smug grin, followed by a sigh of relief from Sherlock and an abrupt twirl from Lestrade to the two suspects.

"Arrest both of them," Sherlock pointed an accusing finger at Joseph and Irene, "Ms. Adler has been a very diligent…participant in this case's investigation," he grinned at Lestrade and strode out of the house. He somehow didn't feel the case was solved yet. There was something constantly nagging in his head.

"Where to now?", John asked. But Sherlock was lost in his own thoughts.

Something was not right about the whole case. He knew Joseph Moriarty was too naïve to have planned the disposal of the murder weapon, let alone the murder. He closed his eyes, steepled his fingers under his chin and went into his mind palace.

* * *


	11. Mind Palace

He closed his eyes, steepled his fingers under his chin and went into his mind palace.

The first room had a dark green room, decorated with woollen red and white deer.

His abnormal love for hideous deer themed jumpers make him nauseous. He made a mental note to change John’s door sometime before thinking whether the case at present had anything to do with John.

No, it didn’t have anything to do with John.

Second room, an unnamed room. The door of that particular room looked unfamiliar. There was a small cat bowl outside the room and the door was covered with beautiful flowers. There was not an inch of the door which was not hidden by the flowers and its lush branches.

Sherlock narrowed his eyes at the door and brushed a few branches off the door to look at the door. He gasped when he saw the wooden door. It was a typical brown wooden door. However, what made him gasp was that the door had green patches of…

This person, whoever they were, was putting on a show of being a bit too happy. And to just deduce whether that person was happy or not, you wouldn’t have to talk to them, but just look at their face and they’d see that something was eating them away.

He frowned and twisted the shiny door knob. The door opened with a low creak and he entered the room quickly. He closed the door after him carefully, turned around and saw every wall covered with books except one.

That one wall intrigued him. It was a very tall wall. It had an exhaust fan high up, near the roof. An unreachable escape route. There was a small empty table against the wall just below the exhaust fan. That was weird. Whomever this room belonged to, definitely loved reading. They would have used the table for either reading, or for climbing onto it to get to the exhaust and escape.

He closed his eyes and thought over what he could make out about the owner’s personality.

_A person who is living a life they hadn’t wished for, but still does. A life full of compromises. This person also puts on a show that they are happy when they really aren’t. A person who has only one real best friend in life, books._

He opened his eyes and gasped, almost stumbling back with shock. The entire room changed in those ten seconds that he had his eyes closed for.

The shelves were lacking books and they were covered with cobwebs. The only light that had been coming from the exhaust fan was no longer coming because an ugly, black rag was hanging over it. The table, however, had decreased in size and had a small lamp and a wreath on it.

Sherlock stepped towards the table and brushed the flowers with his finger. Yellow chrysanthemums…chrysanthemums and the wreath definitely signified death. Yellow…why yellow…yellow…it was someone’s favourite colour. But he couldn’t recall. He growled angrily. His sub-conscious knew who it was, because there was this horribly painful lump in his throat which made him want to cry. He didn’t want to consult his sub-conscious on the matter. No. His sub-conscious and his mind palace were two different sections of his brain. He didn’t want to use his sub-conscious as it made him feel… _human_. But he had to. This aching lump was another thing, pushing him into finding the owner of the room.

He sat down on the floor cross legged and closed his eyes.

_Who is living a compromising life?_

_Who adores books?_

_Who has a connection to that familiar black rag?_

_Whose face is it, which looks happy, but is too pale to even look like it is of a living person?_

_Who loves cats?_

_Who loves the colour yellow?_

_YELLOW!_

His brain screamed and he gasped as he opened his eyes in his mind palace.

_MOLLY HOOPER!_

His mind wouldn’t stop referring to her as Hooper. His mind inadvertently had her named Molly Hooper and wouldn’t change her name to Moriarty. He groaned as he stood up.

This is why he wouldn’t go into his sub-conscious. It hurt him. It hurt him in his throat and most importantly in his chest. He gulped to ease the pain and walked towards the small table in front of him. As he neared it, his eyes went wide with fear and then he saw something scrawled on the table.

_“It’s raining, it’s pouring_

_Sherlock is boring_

_I’m faking, she’s aching_

_Molly is breaking_

_I’m laughing, I’m crying_

_Cause she will soon be dying_

_It’s raining, it’s pouring_

_Sherlock is boring_

_I’m faking, she’s aching_

_Molly is breaking_

_I’m laughing, I’m crying_

_Cause she will soon be dying.”_

“The song!” he yelled and his eyes flew open. He was standing outside the lavish house, bathed in red and blue blinking lights of the police cars surrounding them.

“Sherlock!”

Sherlock whipped around at the sudden noise and found John and Lestrade frowning at him, “What song?”

“I’ve heard it before…” Sherlock murmured to himself thoughtfully, “A long time ago…fifteen years ago to be precise.

John and Lestrade shared confused glances before looking back at Sherlock, “Care to explain?” John asked patiently.

When Sherlock didn’t reply, John sighed and asked a completely different question, “Where to now?”

“The Moriartys, of course. Need to tell them about the arrest, don’t we?” Sherlock answered immediately before stepping forward to hail a cab.

“Right…you alright?” John asked worriedly, “You look…paler than usual...”

“Of course I’m fine! Just a bit hungry I think. What day is it today, John? We should have dinner. Taxi!” a cab skidded to a halt next to them. The three of them jumped in and the cab whisked them away towards their destination, “What did you find out about James?”

“Nothing. He just went to his software developing company. He didn’t even talk to anyone. Nothing suspicious to me…” John shrugged his shoulders.

“Yes…nothing…” Sherlock murmured and pressed his fist against his lips as he gulped, trying to ease the growing lump in his throat.


	12. The Murderer

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A few things should be made clear before you read the chapter:
> 
> 1) I do not prefer any gender over another.
> 
> 2) I do not think that a person, being abused, should stay in a relationship with their abuser. *coughs* Fifty Shades of Grey *coughs*
> 
> 3) I do not think that a person shouldn't be allowed to have fun in their lives before marriage. *coughs* Sophie Hunter *coughs*
> 
> 4) I do not think that a person can only be saved by someone else, of whichever gender. I think that everyone has the power to save themselves, without anyone else's help. In this case, Molly has the power to save herself from the abuse. She just doesn't think it necessary.
> 
> I think I've made my views clear. I'm allowed to have an opinion.

"Hello, Mrs. Moriarty," Sherlock said rudely after Glenda Moriarty opened the door to let them in, "May I talk to James?"

"Yes…he's in his room, upstairs," she gestured towards his room. And before, anyone could even blink, Sherlock ran up the stairs, closely followed by John and Lestrade. Sherlock reached Molly's room and twisted the door knob to find it locked from inside. He turned around and motioned for John and Lestrade to be quiet. He then pulled his shoulders up and thrust his body's full weight against the door. The door creaked but didn't fall open. Sherlock huffed with annoyance and pushed again, harder this time. The door gave way, before the three of them hurried in to find Molly tied, gagged and blindfolded to the bed and James standing beside the bed with a riding crop in his hand and a loathsome toothy grin on his face.

"Step away from her!" Sherlock bellowed and took a step towards him. Lestrade and John, simultaneously, pulled their guns out and aimed it at James.

"Nice and easy," Lestrade growled at James and walked around the bed towards the window to block his exit.

"You took a while to figure it out, Sherlock," James shook his head as he smirked.

"But I did figure it out," Sherlock scowled at him and turned to look at Molly, who was unconscious. Sherlock narrowed his eyes and saw her nostrils flutter and her chest rise and fall. She was alive.

"Don't worry about her. She is fine," James grinned devilishly.

"Then why?"

"Tell me how you figured it out?"

"Why should I?" Sherlock frowned at him. James grinned at him, then at Molly's limp form.

"Because if you don't, I won't tell you what I've done to her."

"What?!" Sherlock gasped and took a concerned step towards Molly. He knew he could deduce what he had done to her, but he would have to move closer to her.

"I wouldn't do that," James smirked at him and took a step closer to Molly as well. Sherlock stopped in his tracks and glared at him.

"Sherlock…maybe you should just tell him," John suggested, while flexing his steady fingers on the gun. Sherlock breathed in deeply as he took in John's wise words and sighed.

"The murder didn't look very complex at the start. I underestimated it. But then I noticed the fingernail marks on the floor, showing that the body had been moved from the crime scene.  _That_ , is something your brother could not have come up with, no offence," he jerked his head.

"None taken," James shrugged, "Do go on."

"That made me realise someone else was involved too. Someone close. Your brother didn't have a lot of people he knew, so either someone from his family or a non-platonic relative. That would mean Mrs. Moriarty, Molly, Irene Adler or you," Sherlock narrowed his eyes at him dangerously, "Your mother didn't love or hate your father. A murder is only committed when there is a correlation between two subjects, whether negative or positive. Your father and mother had zero, so she was crossed out. Molly...she can't save herself from you", he growled angrily, "Let alone kill someone, so she didn't do it. Since the day she arrived under this roof, she has been restrained from everything. She is too scared to even breathe, she can't murder the head of the house!" he yelled and heard John cough purposefully. Sherlock, obviously understood, took a few seconds to breathe and calm down, and then began again, "Which left you and Irene Adler. I talked to Irene, she did have some hand in it. But you…you were the brain, the mind behind the planning weren't you? But why…?" he gritted his teeth, "Why murder your father?"

"Do you know who my father is?" James asked as he brought his hand up near his face and stared at his manicured nails.

"Ah…" Sherlock sighed, "A philanthropist…you weren't getting anything in his will, were you?," he smirked at James.

"No need to feel so upbeat," he grinned, "Because I am going to get  _everything_  now. I had to kill my father to get the money away from his grasp, burn the will to get it out of his charity's grasp, frame my elder brother to get it away from  _his_  grasp."

"Why Molly?"

He smirked triumphantly, "You see…she's meant to be my wife. I knew from quite early on and when I finished high school, I decided to go and take a look at my…bride-to-be. I went to England and I saw something unexpected, something that made my blood boil in my veins. You," he hissed bitterly, "I saw you with her at the park…holding hands and what not!"

"It was you…" Sherlock gasped, "You were singing that ghastly, sinister song!"

"Yes, Sherlock, yes. I composed it myself! Did you like it?" he grinned and began singing the song again.

"It's raining, it's pouring

Sherlock is boring

I'm faking, she's aching

Molly is breaking

I'm laughing, I'm crying

Cause she will soon be dying."

"Stop it!" Sherlock growled angrily.

"You two were holding hands…when I saw you, you were touching her…you touched her! Obviously, I had to kill her!"

"Why kill  _her,_  when  _I_  touched her?" Sherlock yelled angrily, "Should you be killing  _me_?!"

"Oh don't worry. I had saved you for the best part. Sentiment…She dies and you get to  _feel_  the pain."

"Ah, but you see, you just confessed to all your crimes, in front of a police officer right here," Sherlock pouted and pointed to Lestrade, "That will take you straight through court to prison before you can kill anyone or take anything."

"You think so?" James smirked, "The woman downstairs, my mother, she just lost a husband and a son. She wouldn't want anyone to take her only family member away from her."

"We'll see about that!" Lestrade growled and jumped behind James, clicking the handcuffs around his wrists, "James Moriarty, you are under arrest for the conspiracy and murder of Jeremy Moriarty."

Lestrade pushed him towards the door as Sherlock and John hurried towards Molly, "What do you think?" Sherlock asked John as he took her pulse.

"She's fine. Just unconscious. Go help Lestrade," John said, "Don't worry, I will stay with her. Just make sure that bastard makes it to prison."

"I appreciate it, John," Sherlock said and quickly hurried out the room to escort James to jail. Just when they reached the stairs, James did something much uncalled for.

"Mother! They are arresting me for Father's murder! They are framing me, Mother! Help me, please!" James wailed. Mrs. Moriarty gasped and stood up from the couch she was lounging on.

"What?" she looked at Sherlock and Lestrade with troubled eyes.

"Yes, Mrs. Moriarty. We have enough solid evidence to send him to prison," Lestrade informed. Mrs. Moriarty turned towards James and looked at him. He was pouting and sniffling, disgustingly and had a few fake tears streaming down his cheeks. Mrs. Moriarty then turned around. That's what everyone thought until she swung her arm and slapped her son with a loud, echoing snap across his face. No one was more surprised than James himself.

"Mother I-!" James began and earned another slap from his mother, followed by two more. Sherlock and Lestrade flinched with every slap, even though they knew he deserved it.

"Why?! I hoped and hoped and hoped it wouldn't be you! But I knew it would be you! You destroyed my family! Our family, James! What did you hope to get? And look at what you got!" she cried loudly as James paled with fright, "Do you know how proud I was when I gave birth to you and your brother? Do you know how respected I was that I gave birth to two sons, even though I had  _always_  wanted a daughter? I tried to raise you well, taught you honesty, bravery, and love…but you learnt nothing! Go to hell, James. You are not my son. Neither is Joseph. I can't have birthed you two. Molly is my daughter. I love that dear girl more than you two!"

"Come on, let's go," Lestrade said authoritatively and pushed James towards the door. Sherlock was about to follow them out, when he was pulled back in. He had just regained his balance when he found Mrs. Moriarty pulled him to her and began sobbing into his chest. Sherlock stood frozen at his spot, his back awkwardly stiff as he stared down at the trembling mop of hair on his chest. He raised his hand tentatively and gave quick, short, hardly comforting pats on her shoulder.

"Thank you," she said gratefully as she stepped away from him, wiping her tears from her face.

"Thank you?" he frowned, "What for?"

"For saving Molly."

"Molly didn't need any saving," he scowled stubbornly, "She wanted to stay with all the… _abuse_ , it seems."

"She wanted the flogging?" the old woman frowned, then smiled at his pout, "She didn't like the flogging, Mr. Holmes. Even though we didn't talk much, I know her. She didn't like it, and she thinks she knows what being a wife means…but she doesn't. Someone taught her a very wrong meaning of marriage."

"Right…" Sherlock raised an eyebrow at her, "So what…what happens now? Will she-Moll-Mrs. James Moriarty," he winced uncomfortably, "Stay here?"  
"It is up to her. I would very much like to have her here with me…but I want her to do whatever she wants to. Because I get this feeling that the poor girl hasn't done anything  _she_  wanted to in a long while…" she said thoughtfully.

"So…you mean she can marry someone else too?" he asked tentatively. Mrs. Moriarty looked up at him with mild surprise then scowled.

"How dare you!" she bellowed at him.

"What? No, no-I didn't mean-" Sherlock explained.

"You want her for yourself! She is a married woman!" she scolded angrily.

"No, Mrs. Moriarty, I assure you-" Sherlock tried to speak and earned a light slap on his arm. It felt like a light playful tap.

"I'm just playing," Mrs. Moriarty winked, "I know you like her, Mr. Holmes," Sherlock shook his head at her remark, "Oh don't lie! I know you do. James told me he had seen Molly holding hands with someone at her school. I bet you anything…that it was you. I don't know whether you two were in love then or not, but you two are definitely in love now."

"No, Mrs. Moriarty. As you said, she is a married wom-"

"Do not do what I did, Mr. Holmes. Do not sacrifice love for anything, because nothing can replace something as pure and precious as love. Molly's marriage, is neither precious, nor pure. I will try to put some sense into her brain and try to convince her to move on and marry  _someone_ ," she grinned.

"You are awfully a lot happy for a widow," he frowned, "But I know you didn't kill your husband. So why?"

She shrugged, "Because I too, can move on with my life. I won't take the money. I will do whatever Jeremy's will said and try to rid myself of all the bad memories. I know that for every bad person, there are many good people on the earth."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In this chapter, I wrote that James wanted to kill Molly because Sherlock touched her. That is how women are treated in today's world. It should be noted, that today's world, is the most civilised it has ever been and still...the victim gets blamed...I hope it does get better.
> 
> Happy International Women's Day


	13. For The Rest Of His Life

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This is the last chapter of the story! I hope you enjoyed it just as much I did! :)

A few months later

 

Sherlock Holmes was back in Cork with John Watson, visiting the Moriartys. They had just got news that James Moriarty had committed suicide in prison, days before his trial. Mycroft Holmes had let Sherlock know the details of the suicide and it was legitimate. So they weren’t going to visit the prison and ask about the details of the suicide. They were going to visit Molly Moriarty and her mother in law at their new house. Glenda had given the old mansion to a charity as provided for in the will, and they had moved to another, much smaller, house.

Sherlock knocked on the door, before it was opened by a very healthy, rosy cheeked, Molly.

“Oh!” she gasped with surprise, “Hello, umm why are you here?” she asked bluntly.

“To visit,” he grinned toothily.

“So…I will have to invite you in?”

“Precisely.”

“Uh…would you like to come in?”

“Yes, thank you,” he impatiently pressed his hand against the door and pushed it back, as he barged in. Molly had taken the precaution to move out of his way, just as he had pushed the door open.

“Sherlock!” Mrs. Moriarty exclaimed and came to hug him delightfully.

“You knew he was coming?” Molly asked.

“Oh, yes darling. Didn’t I tell you?”

“Eh…no…” Molly muttered.

“Must’ve slipped my mind. Anyways, Sherlock is here and so is Doctor Watson,” she shook hands with John and beckoned them towards the lounge, “Come on have a seat.”

John followed her in, while Sherlock stayed back for just enough time to wink at Molly, wait for her to gasp, then chuckle at her and follow John’s lead.

Molly pursed her lips with irritation and stomped into the lounge.

“Why are you here?” she asked pointedly, her glare fixed on Sherlock’s, oh-so-innocent, face.

“I was invited.”

“No you weren’t,” she shook her head and crossed her arms.

“Yes he was,” Mrs. Moriarty said from the kitchen.

“But…but why?” Molly whined and let her arms hang loosely at her sides.

“Because he is my and, I get the news, your _friend_ ,” Mrs. Moriarty wiggled her eyebrows at her.

Molly smiled at the old woman. Oh, how wrong she had been about her mother-in-law. She had thought she was one of the gossiping women you found in every neighbourhood. But when she now thought about it, she gossiped just as much as she herself did. Never. She was just as one would want their mother to be. A mother, she did have biologically, but never emotionally. Her parents had been the ones who had completely destroyed who Molly was, and who she wanted to be. She had been turned into property of a person she had never known. Her self-esteem was long lost.

Mrs. Moriarty on the other hand, had been a mother she never had. After Molly had recovered from the ordeal, the first thing Mrs. Moriarty did, after sorting out the matters of Jeremy Moriarty’s will with his legal advisers, was to force Molly back into a medical school to complete her studies. Molly knew they were short on money and didn’t want to waste a penny on it. But her mother-in-law had said, “Everything that you learn, whether it be at a school, or in practical life, never goes to waste. Don’t call your education a waste of money.” And Molly had to agree with her. And today, she really could say, that she loved her.

“And you’re smiling.”

“What?” Molly said as came back down to earth from her walk down the memory lane. Mrs. Moriarty was smiling at her, “What?!” Molly repeated her question.

“Oh nothing…just wondering how to proceed the conversation with Sherlock,” she smirked. Molly narrowed her eyes and her, then turned to glare at Sherlock.

“Why exactly is he here?” Molly asked.

“What do you think?” Mrs. Moriarty asked.

“What do I think? I don-oh! Wait one second,” she whipped around and pouted, “He is not here because of…his death.”

“Mmm…more or less.” She said playfully, “You are a single lady, so he-“

“Nope. No. No way,” she turned around and loomed over Sherlock and poked his chest with her finger, “You do not get to do that! You do not get to do that to me!” she growled.

“I don’t know what either of you are talking about,” he said with a tinge of fear and turned his head to John, “Do you?”

“A bit, yes,” John grinned at Sherlock’s changing expression from confusion to anger.

“When were you going to tell me?!” Sherlock yelled.

“When the need arose.”

“ _Now_ is the need, John!”

“Well, why don’t you sit down Molly?” he gestured towards the sofa. Molly was visibly shaking with anger, but calmed a bit by John’s polite gesture. Molly nodded at him and sat down on the sofa.

“What is this about John?” Sherlock asked as he turned his body to face him.

“Mrs. Moriarty called me and told me about what happened at school between you two and-“

“It was just _two_ days, Doctor Watson! Nothing happened!” Molly screamed and stood up with the intensity of her anger.

“Calm down, Molly. No one is blaming you for anything. I blame only one person for what happened to you after that. And that is,” John turned to Sherlock and pointed a finger at him, “Him.”

“Me?” Sherlock frowned and put some distance between him and John.

“Molly will explain you that in detail and then you two will marry,” John nodded and stood up.

“Marry?!” Sherlock scoffed.

“Marry _him?!_ ” Molly snorted rather unattractively.

“Hey! Why? What’s wrong with me?” Sherlock said self-consciously.

 “You’re married to your _work_ ,” she spat.

“I am, but not in that sense! Just that I am very much engaged with-“

“You see! There he said it!”

“We both better leave…” John murmured to Mrs. Moriarty and led her outside, while Sherlock and Molly had a tongue battle.

“Molly, stop being so unreasonable,” Sherlock scowled.

“Oh _I_ am being unreasonable? How so?”

“You’re screaming when you mother-in-law is in stress!”

“Well I’d say it would be _your_ fault,” she poked him in the chest, “Had it not been for you, I wouldn’t be in this mess!”

“Where exactly would you have been then, Molly Moriarty?” His nostrils flared as he took a step towards her.

“Happily married!”

“To whom may I ask? Not James. You can hardly call that happy. With whom did you actually expect ‘happy’?” he growled and invaded her personal space.

“With…with Sally!”

Sherlock stumbled back, “You’re lesbian?”

“Uh…I…yes I am!”

Sherlock narrowed his eyes, then smirked, “That’s good. Now that Sally has been checked off your list, because she really cause you a lot of trouble, who’s next on your list?”

“Irene!”

“Good luck with that because the last time I saw her she was straight.”

“I’ll find someone.”

“Like?”

“Why do you care?”

“Just trying to make sure that whoever you choose doesn’t decide to go on a killing spree.”

“How dare you!” Molly slapped him. Hard. Sherlock jerked to the side, clearly not expecting it. His tool kit and a piece of paper flew out from inside his coat. Sherlock blushed and kept his face turned away from her. Molly frowned at the paper and picked it up.

She unfolded it and found a very familiar and deeply missed, beautiful handwriting. An angry red box over a faded word ‘deoxygenated’ and her handwriting with eight out of ten and other monstrosity of drawings. Molly gulped as she stared with her back to Sherlock.

_Mmm…It was going to end in the dust bin anyway, but now that you’ve painstakingly sketched…uh…your thoughts onto it, I’d rather like to keep it._

“You didn’t throw this away?” she whispered.

“No.”

“Why?”

“Why do you think?”

“For revision?”

“No.” he shook his head.

“Then?”

“Think…”

“Did I hurt you?”

“No. Answer your question, Molly.”

“I don’t want to anymore.”

“Because you know the answer?”

Molly turned away from Sherlock when he looked at her. They remained standing in silence, while Sherlock hoped that she would say something.

“I’ll go get John, it’s getting late,” Sherlock turned around to leave when Molly caught his arm.

Sherlock looked back at her, with his eyebrows raised.

“Don’t leave me again…please…” Molly whispered.

Sherlock breathed in deeply and let it out slowly.

“What would you like me to do then?”

“Stay?”

“Why?”

“I don’t want to…lose you again…”

“Why?”

“Because…I-I love you…”

“Molly…” Sherlock began softly.

Molly gasped. She thought she had got it all wrong and turned away.

“I am so, so sorry!”

“Molly….” He whispered in her ear.

“I really am sorry!” she squeaked as she apologised.

“Molly, would you please repeat what you said just now?”

“What? Uh…I really am sorry?”

“Before all your unnecessary apologies.”

“I don’t…want to lose you again….”

“No, Molly after that…”

“No…”she murmured out a whine,

“I didn’t quite catch it, so please…?”

“I…um…”

“Yes…?” Sherlock lowered his head and pressed his hands over her shoulder and lips to her ear. Molly gasped and tried turning around, “No…first repeat what you said…” he pressed another soft kiss behind her ear.

“Umm…I think…I l-love you…”

“Hmm…you were quite sure a minute ago,” he chuckled and nipped at her earlobe. Molly shrieked and tried turning around, but Sherlock wouldn’t let her.

“I love you…” she whispered as he kissed the curve of her neck.

“I can’t hear you…” he grinned against her neck and bit down gently.

“I love you.” She shrieked, her cheeks turning red. She started curling around herself when Sherlock turned her around and grinned.

“Well…that’s strange. Weren’t you a lesbian a few _seconds_ ago?”

“I was lying…sorry…”

“Molly…will you do me one favour?”

“Yes?”

“Don’t use the word ‘sorry’ ever again, in front of me. Never.”

“Why?”

“You say it too much.”

“Oh…apologies…”

“Nor that. You don’t have to apologise to anyone for anything.”

Molly nodded and pulled away.

“Why do you have that exam paper with you?”

Sherlock rolled his eyes and pressed his lips against hers. Molly gasped with surprise to Sherlock’s delight and Sherlock pushed his tongue into her mouth. Molly whimpered and grabbed hold of the back of his coat around his waist. Their lips danced as they kissed till they couldn’t breathe and pulled away.

Sherlock cupped her face and stared at her flushed cheeks, swollen lips, then her eyes. Those lovely brown eyes with golden flecks. He was going to die if he didn’t have her as his own. He felt his knees buckle beneath him and he feel onto his knees in front of her.

“Did you get the answer to your question?” he asked as he looked up at her.  
Molly nodded, “But I didn’t hear it…”

Sherlock smiled and wrapped his arms around her waist, burying his face in her stomach, “I love you, Molly…uh…” he frowned.

“Hooper…” she whispered, fighting back a smile.

“Hooper?”

“I am getting a lawyer first thing tomorrow morning.”

“And then?”

“Getting a divorce,” Molly frowned as he jumped onto his feet and backed her into a shelf.

“And then?”

“Then…I’ll…” she exclaimed as she brought her hand up to behind her shelf, rummaging for anything that might create a barrier. Her hand caught something, and she brought the book down to his chest, “I’ll get you to read Pride and Prejudice!” she grinned.

Sherlock groaned as he turned away and crossed his arms.

“What do I get then?” he asked.

“Brownies?”

“I don’t like them.”

“Umm… a kiss?”

“Per word I read?”

“No!” she gasped.

“Per paragraph?”

“No, Sherlock.”

“Per chapter?”

“Nope.”

“Please?” he pouted.

“Fine!”

“That’s seventy one kisses for me”, he chuckled.

“Sixty one kisses!”

“Molly!” he whined and sat on the floor to sulk.

“I never said that those will be the only sixty one kisses you’ll get in your entire life”, she grinned as she ruffled his dark hair.

“Oh!” he jumped up and stole a kiss from her.

“Hey!” she cried out in surprise, “Now it’s sixty! Not one mor-“ her whine got muffled when Sherlock kissed her again, “Now that’s fifty nine, Sherlo-“ she let out another muffled cry when he kissed her again, “I will kill you!” she cried as she hooked her leg around one of his, tugged and made him crash to the ground.

“Oww! Molly!” he cried when Molly ran out of the room, her giggles surrounding him. He sighed with a smile and got onto his feet, preparing to follow her and stay with her everywhere she went, for the rest of his life.


End file.
